


Ghosts and Liars

by livilend



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 52,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livilend/pseuds/livilend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha means to be gone longer. To hear about it when it’s over, when the dust has settled and Steve has no choice but to try and move on. And maybe years from now, if neither of them is dead, she’ll tell him what she knows. Thinks she knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to make this at least somewhat canon-compliant by means of vagueness.
> 
> Apologies for all the things I probably got wrong by not researching them properly.

Natasha means to be gone longer. To hear about it when it’s over, when the dust has settled and Steve has no choice but to try and move on. And maybe years from now, if neither of them is dead, she’ll tell him what she knows. Thinks she knows.

He says the Winter Soldier recognized him. Saved his life. She wants to warn him not to get his hopes up. It’s possible, of course. It’s also possible Steve saw what he wanted to see because the truth was too painful: that his friend was gone, burned away to ashes. Whatever happened on the helicarrier, she has no doubt that the first time they fought, the Soldier would have killed both her and Steve if given the chance. He was aiming to kill, and so was she. If her memories are real, she thinks he deserves that much. 

She keeps tabs on Steve as the months go by, as he and Sam crisscross the globe chasing down one dead end after another. But then Sam’s grandmother gets sick and Steve tells him no, of course he should go home, and Sam says maybe it’s time for them to take a break anyway. Steve tells Natasha on the phone and she’s never heard him sound so tired. So she comes back.

She meets him in Montana, where he’s just picked up reports of a gun battle between someone who fits the Soldier’s description and an armored van full of men who could be Hydra. No mention of the metal arm, but he’d know enough to hide it. Natasha doesn’t say that it’s no more promising than any of the other paranoia-fueled rumors Steve’s been going after.

Which makes it surprising that the day after her flight gets in, she and Steve are staking out a rundown motel room when the Winter Soldier walks up to the door in civilian clothes. Steve moves without meaning to—just a quickly suppressed twitch, but it’s enough to tip the Soldier off.

Natasha goes around the back to cut off the Soldier’s escape and gets there just in time to see him vault out the window of the motel room. There’s a fraction of a second where he stumbles, staring at her with wild eyes, and that’s when she should make her move, tackle him, subdue by any means necessary, but she doesn’t. She watches him run until he disappears around a corner. He’s good at disappearing; they’ve got little to no chance of finding him once he’s got a head start. 

She climbs into the room through the broken window and comes face to face with Steve, who’s battered the door off its hinges in his rush to get in. She shakes her head at him: no luck. There’s not much in the room. One bed, perfectly made, likely never slept in. Some cans of food, bottled water. A knife that probably doubles as a can opener. No notebooks, no files, no signs that the Soldier’s remembering anything or working from any kind of plan. Steve looks around and his shoulders slump as he finds only more weapons—guns in the dresser drawers, knives under the bed, in the bathroom. Gauze and rubbing alcohol in the cabinet. The bathroom mirror is destroyed—not cracked, but an empty frame, every shard of glass removed. The shards are a pile of silver in the wastebasket, some of them tipped with dark red.

Natasha comes up behind him and almost puts a hand on his shoulder. “At least he’s not sleeping on park benches,” she says.

Steve turns to face her. There are dark circles under his eyes. “Why didn’t you go after him?” he demands.

Natasha opens her mouth and stops short. Why didn’t she? A lie is tempting: civilians in the crossfire. An injury sustained. Finally she says, “He was scared.”

Steve looks at her for a long time. Then he sighs and nods.

* * *

Natasha’s the one who finds him, in the end. In another city, curled up in an abandoned warehouse, back to the wall. Most of his shirt is soaked red and she can’t see where the wound is, but she thinks he could still get up and run. They’ve dealt with the Hydra retrieval squad already, so it’s just her and the Soldier. He’s sitting there staring at nothing when she comes in, but as soon as he hears her there’s a gun trained on her. The gun is shaking; he transfers it to the left hand. Presses the right against his abdomen. Blood leaks between his fingers.

“Don’t come any closer.” His voice is quiet, raspy. 

She raises her hands, empty of weapons (though he probably knows how little that means). Stays where she is. Tries to think what she can say that he’ll believe.

“That looks bad. We’ve got a first aid kit in the car.”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes wide and unfocused. “I’m not going back.” His face changes; for a second it’s terror, then anger, then all the expression drains out of it. “It’s not critical,” he says in a voice to match the face.

“I’m not Hydra.”

The Winter Soldier’s eyes dart to somewhere behind her and go wide again, that trapped animal look. Steve must have caught up with her, but he’s hanging back, lingering in the doorway. Uncharacteristically prudent.

The Soldier focuses on Natasha again. “No, you—I remember, I—” His breathing quickens and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “They say that. They want to help. But I’m not—I won’t—I _won’t._ ” He doesn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

“I know,” Natasha says softly. His jaw tightens, and she realizes he’s taken it as, I know you won’t come quietly. He presses the muzzle of the gun to his temple.

“Need their asset alive, don’t they? Maybe not.” He makes a choked noise that might be a laugh. “Either way.”

It’s too much for Steve, and he comes forward, his face anguished. “Bucky,” he says, “Bucky, please, no.” Reckless. Could easily have spooked him into pulling the trigger. Luck, or maybe more than that. The Winter Soldier’s (James’s, Bucky’s) eyes are fixed on Steve now. He doesn’t look at Steve like he looks at Natasha. The fear’s still there, but underneath that it’s like he’s looking at something he desperately wants and knows he can’t have. Natasha takes a step back and lets herself fade into the background.

It hurts, a little, that Steve can reach him when she can’t.

Steve has his hands out, palms up, pleadingly. The Soldier swallows. The gun doesn’t move but his eyes are locked with Steve’s now.

“It’s me, it’s Steve,” Steve says. “I know you don’t remember, but…”

“I know who you are,” the Soldier says quietly. “Steven Grant Rogers. Captain America. I know who I’m—” He falters. “Supposed to be. I did the research, I don’t go in blind.” There’s a hint almost of pleading in his voice.

Steve takes a breath and lets it out. “It’s true. All of it. You’re Bucky Barnes, you’re my best friend.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I can’t be.”

“I know you saved me. After the helicarriers fell. You dragged me out of the water.”

He jerks his head in denial again, his eyes going to a spot somewhere near Steve’s knee. “No,” he whispers. “I didn’t, I—I couldn’t. Disobeying a direct—it’s not allowed.”

Steve gets to his knees, still a few steps away, not close enough to touch.

“It’s okay, Buck. We’re not gonna hurt you. Just give me the gun, okay? Please?”

The Soldier doesn’t move, not for a long moment. Then he lowers the gun to his lap, still gripping it tightly. 

Steve closes his eyes in relief, then nods. Good enough. Natasha wonders if he’s miscalculating, if he's about to get shot and fatally this time. Considers angles, speeds, the best way to minimize the damage.

“Steve,” the Soldier says. He sounds dazed. “ _Steve_ Rogers. I know—I knew. Something.” He bites his lip. “They took it.” His eyes harden. “They say I need it but they _take_ things. I won’t let you. I won’t sit still for it, I, I—you’ll have to kill me.” He’s shaking all over now.

“I would never do that to you, Buck. I promise. I won’t let anyone else, either. They’d have to kill _me_ first.” He glances at Natasha. “Her, too.”

The Soldier’s eyes go distant. “There was a—table. He came for me. They said no one would come.” He looks at Steve, cautiously, for confirmation. “That was you? You came?”

Steve smiles a little, one-sided and painful. “Yeah. That was me.”

They stay there for a while, all three of them. Not moving. It’s chilly, cold air blowing in through the open door. Finally Steve reaches out, cautiously, for the Soldier, but he presses himself back against the wall, so Steve gets to his feet instead. The Soldier just stares up at him.

“Come on,” Steve says, and holds out a hand, and the Soldier’s face goes through confusion, fear, and then something like resignation, and he gets to his feet. He doesn’t wince, in spite of the stab wound. He doesn’t take Steve’s hand but when he stumbles Steve helps support him and he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are glassy, distant. Natasha’s pretty sure he’s got only the vaguest understanding of who they are or what he’s agreeing to. They leave a trail of dripping blood all the way to the car.


	2. Chapter 2

The Winter Soldier doesn’t remember ever failing to complete a mission, but he knows how bad it is. The worst thing. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he does. And he didn’t just fail; he directly intervened and prevented success. When he was hanging from the remains of the helicarrier and he saw the target fall, he should have been coldly satisfied. At least relieved, because whatever trick Captain Rogers was using on him, it wouldn’t work anymore. It would all evaporate soon, the confusion, the horror, all the broken things shifting in his head. But instead his arm betrayed him and let go before he could think anything at all, and then he was diving into the Potomac, and the voice screaming in his head was saying _he fell, he’s dead and I didn’t stop it_ and the worst part is he doesn’t know _why._ He just knows he couldn’t. Couldn’t let it happen.

His training kicks in afterward. When Rogers is lying on the river bank, choking up water. Keep moving, go to ground, stabilize injuries, don’t think (he’s not ever supposed to think). It’s not until he’s found shelter in an abandoned warehouse, till he’s bitten down on the sleeve of his jacket and popped his shoulder back into the socket and determined that none of his other injuries are potentially fatal, that it hits him. He failed, he disobeyed, and he curls up on his knees, hands shielding his head, trying to breathe, shaking. This is the worst thing. The worst possible thing. He’ll go back, and he’ll be disciplined. They’ll fix it. They’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. It’s supposed to make him feel better. They say it…they say it so reassuringly.

He’s going to go back. Just not yet. He stays there for a long time, huddled. Doesn’t get up until hunger forces him to. His body, healing itself, is burning through energy faster than usual. It’s dark out. He steals the things he needs quickly: less conspicuous clothing, as much food as he can carry. Then he goes back to the warehouse and waits. Maybe he doesn’t need to find them. Maybe they’ll come to him. He knows they have ways of finding him, though he doesn’t remember how.

He waits for three days. Then he locates the safe house where he’s supposed to report. Stops just out of sight, hears voices inside. The punishment will be worse if he doesn’t go in. More disobedience. He thinks maybe it’s happened before, that they had to come looking for him? Drag him back. Crack of a tibia. Blood in his mouth. His hand is trembling, close to one of his gun holsters. He doesn’t know why. 

He thinks about going back to the riverbank. But Captain Rogers won’t be there anymore. The Soldier could find him. Track him down, complete the mission. Or not complete it. Just…look at him. His face. Touch it. It makes no sense. Sabotage. Captain Rogers did something to him, to confuse him. A trick he hasn’t encountered before. Drugs, subliminal suggestion? He doesn’t remember an opportunity for that. But maybe he wouldn’t remember. He often doesn't remember. 

He stands there for a long time and then one of the voices gets louder, one of the Hydra soldiers, cheerful, calling something back to a teammate as she comes out through a side door, and the Soldier melts away into the shadows before he realizes he’s going to.

He’s going to go back. Of course he’s going to go back. Maybe there’s a good reason not to. One of his instincts, the things he knows without knowing how. Captain Rogers did something to him and maybe he’s a threat to Hydra now, maybe he needs to burn it out of himself before he reports in. The correct course of action. Maybe he’s being good, only he doesn’t know it. He has to trust his instincts. 

Something swims into his head, half-formed. Cold concrete floor, his palms against it. Taste of rubber. _They did something to me. They took…_ Was that Captain Rogers? He did something to the Soldier and now he can’t remember what. It doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know._

He’s going to go back.

* * *

The Soldier goes to the Smithsonian exhibit. Has to go, doesn’t know why. He sees his own face. More lies, or he’s hallucinating (drugs? Shouldn’t they be out of his system by now? He metabolizes things quickly). Somehow it isn’t true; he just doesn’t know how. But it…clicks, the way things sometimes do, when he doesn’t really remember, but it feels right. He’s supposed to avoid that feeling. He’s been out of cryo a long time, they haven’t wiped him in a long time. He needs regular maintenance or he starts to malfunction.

Some memory swims up at him. Taste of cigarette smoke, it’s dark and they’re outside, bugs chattering in the trees, someone says _Can’t sleep, huh?_ in that voice, the one Rogers used. It’s the same, the same voice, and he’s dizzy for a moment, puts a hand against the wall. The left hand, gloved to be inconspicuous. If he could just hear the voice again, it would make sense.

It’s not until he sees the picture of Captain Rogers how he used to be that he lets himself think it. 5’4,” 95 pounds, the stubborn jut of his chin, and the Soldier remembers an arm slung around skinny shoulders, shoulder blades poking him, and for the first time he shapes it into words. _It’s true. He was telling the truth._

But. But his memory is untrustworthy, that’s why he has to let the doctors help him. And the doctors say _Captain America is not your friend, he left you to die,_ and his own voice is weak and desperate, trying not to cry, and he says, _No, that isn’t right. I don’t understand._

_It’s all right. You will._ The hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into the chair again. He’s untrustworthy. He gets confused. But there’s a shadow of a memory and he doesn’t want to push at it too hard for fear of making it into something it’s not. A feeling of something…someone reaching for him, desperate, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. Was that Rogers? Maybe it was them. Hydra. Saving him.

* * *

They come after him eventually. Only ten of them. Insufficient. He should tell them, so they can do better. Instead he thinks of the chair and how once they repair him he’ll never know the truth, and his fist fracturing Rogers’s cheekbone, and he doesn’t know what happens after that but when he comes back to himself their bodies are everywhere. After that he stops telling himself he’s going to go back. Instead he runs. If he thought they would kill him, he might turn himself in. But they won’t kill him, and it’ll be bad, worse than anything ever before, and he can’t. Not this time.

He leaves the country and he comes back and then he does it all again. He keeps moving because he doesn’t know what else to do, and he eats and sleeps when he remembers to, and when Hydra teams come to take him in, he kills them. The rest of the time he sits in whatever he’s using as a base and stares at the wall. Images come to him then, sharp-edged things that he doesn’t understand. There are so many of them. Blood, dead eyes staring. Bone fragments in his hair, the smell of intestines. It’s worse when he sleeps. He starts to look forward to the killing because it breaks the monotony, and when he has that thought (he’s not supposed to think; this is why) he ends up shivering and retching over a toilet for hours.

He tries not to think about Captain Rogers, but he can’t help it. What would happen if the Soldier went to find him again. He thinks that he’s killed too many people to count, he’s a machine made for killing, and Rogers is the opposite of that. From what the Soldier knows, from the briefing, the research he’s done on his own since then. If they met again, Rogers would be…angry? Rogers didn’t want to hurt him on the helicarrier, or at least he said he didn’t. Sometimes they say that. Rogers said that but then he wrenched the Soldier’s arm out of its socket, choked him, and he remembers the fear, he was failing, he thought he would die. He didn’t die. Rogers stopped. Normally they don’t stop.

Or Rogers would be…disappointed. Disgusted. After the chair, the technician looking down at the vomit on his shoes. That look.

Or he would be. His face, battered, already swollen. He would let the Soldier kill him. For some reason that makes him want to run more than all the other things put together. It would be the worst thing, it would be failing. A mission? Some other mission, something buried. Sleeper programming. If they put something like that in him then maybe he’s doing what he’s supposed to do. Maybe they won’t punish him too much.

In the end Rogers finds him. Natalia Romanova is there with him. The Soldier knows about her from the mission briefing, but he also knows things he shouldn’t. Her small hands at his throat, her back hitting a practice mat. Not to trust her, because she’s never what she pretends to be. He’s more afraid of her than he is of Rogers. But he’s tired and dizzy from blood loss and he can’t run anymore. So in the end he lets them take him.


	3. Chapter 3

The Soldier sits in the back seat of the car. He bleeds quietly on the upholstery while Steve kneels and pulls up his shirt to look at the deep gash under his ribs. The Soldier is holding himself very still but Natasha can see that he doesn’t want to be touched. She hangs back, observing over Steve’s shoulder.

“That’d need stitches if he were a normal person,” she says. Then she bites her lip for talking about the Soldier, rather than to him. It’s easier to talk to Steve. She knows how to talk to Steve.

Steve grimaces, half twisting to look at her. “If he were a normal person he’d be dead.” He turns back to the Soldier. “Bucky? You think you can handle it if I stitch this up?”

The Soldier looks at him blankly. Natasha can imagine what he’s thinking: why are you asking me? Just do it.

Steve sighs at the lack of response. “Bucky? I don’t think you can stand to lose much more blood, so I’ve got to do this, okay?”

The Soldier looks at him, a crease between his eyebrows. Eventually he gives a small nod. Steve’s hands tremble, but he gets to work, putting in a passably neat row of stitches. He apologizes for the lack of anesthetic. The Soldier doesn’t so much as twitch until Steve starts the car. Then he jolts in surprise and looks down at his hands. Natasha thinks she can interpret that one, too: no restraints.

* * *

They fly back to New York in a private jet, courtesy of Tony Stark. The Soldier slumps in his seat, eyelids drooping. He seems reassured by the seatbelt, which he hasn’t unfastened even though Steve told him he could, now that they’re in the air. Steve is sitting on the Soldier’s right, Natasha a few seats away. She doesn’t want to crowd the Soldier. Or be too close to that arm if he gets violent. He’s still heavily armed, which is probably a bad idea. Steve thinks it will make him feel safer. Natasha thinks Steve has no idea how many weapons the Soldier has on him right now. Not that one wouldn't be enough.

Natasha looks the Soldier over surreptitiously. Steve isn’t even pretending not to stare. He keeps raising his hands and putting them back on the armrests like he has to remind himself not to touch. Now and then he says something like, You’re safe now, or, I’m so glad we found you, Bucky, or, It’s gonna be okay now. The Soldier doesn’t respond, which is hardly surprising. He’s not in good shape. He’s malnourished and stringy-haired, cheekbones too sharp under a layer of stubble. Clothes covered in drying blood. He badly needs a shower. His eyes are the same blue she remembers. Wide-set, oddly soft and young.

She wishes Steve would stop calling him Bucky. It’s naïve to think of him as Bucky Barnes, but The Soldier isn’t a name. Not for a person. And she can’t call him James. Not without knowing more.

Finally she can’t help herself. She turns to look at him directly and says, “What do you remember about me?”

He blinks at her, still dazed. After a moment he pulls himself together. “Natalia Alianovna Romanova, alias Black Widow. 5’3,” exceptional strength and agility, skilled in disguise and manipulation. Former Hydra agent, currently works for SHIELD…” He frowns, voice slowing, and Natasha wonders if he realizes that part’s outdated. Does he understand what happened, that SHIELD and Hydra are both in pieces? He could get the basics from any news site. “Uses a number of weapons, including—”

“You shot me once. Do you remember that? Odessa.” She pulls up her shirt to show him the scar. Steve gives her a startled look. The Soldier looks at it obediently, then shakes his head. “I don’t remember. My memory’s not reliable without maintenance.” He sounds almost apologetic.

Steve grimaces at that, and the Soldier glances at him, fearful.

Natasha lets her shirt drop. “What about before that? 1996? 2001? 2004?” Stupid, who’s to say he ever knew what year it was? “I would have been younger. Maybe with blonde hair? Or brown?” She leans closer, staring at him intently.

He shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, I—I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Natasha,” Steve says. “Ease up.”

She knows better. He’s scared and confused and this isn’t the way to get intel from him. She makes herself lean back in her seat and release the tension in her shoulders. He remembers Steve, at least a fragment or two. She just thought maybe…well. Stupid. She dredges up a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

He doesn’t respond, but she thinks his blankness is more intentional after that, more determined. He won’t look at her at all.

* * *

After an hour the Soldier falls asleep, or pretends to, his breathing slow and regular. Steve takes advantage of the opportunity to get out of his seat, gesturing for Natasha to join him as he walks to the other end of the plane, near the cockpit. They can still see the Soldier from there. He doesn’t move.

Steve lowers his voice. “What was that about, earlier? Asking if he remembered you.”

Natasha shrugs. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“You knew him before, didn’t you?” Natasha doesn’t let anything show on her face, but Steve takes her silence as an answer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wasn’t sure.” It comes out sharper than she intends. She rubs a hand briefly over her forehead, when what she really wants to do is hide her face in her hands. She looks at the wall behind Steve. “I’m still not sure.” She tries to make her voice light. “My memory’s not so reliable either.”

The edge of anger goes out of Steve’s voice. She hasn’t told him much about her past, but he knows the gist of it. “What do you think you remember?”

She takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “His face. Fighting him, maybe. Training. When we were both—” She shakes her head. “They could have planted the memories. They can do that, you know.” Her voice is determinedly casual. “Or maybe I just caught a glimpse of him once, heard someone whispering about him, and embroidered the rest. My imaginary friend.” She laughs, brittle. “A dead-eyed cyborg killing machine. Seems about right.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“I remember him being kind to me,” she makes herself say, because Steve deserves to know that. “When no one else was. When I said I’d tried to find him before…it wasn’t just idle curiosity. I needed to know if he was real.” She has to say this next part too. “I didn’t know he used to be Bucky Barnes. I should have figured it out. I would have told you if I knew.”

“I believe you,” Steve says. Just like that. It’ll never stop surprising her. Steve’s jaw tightens. “And he’s still Bucky Barnes.”

Natasha runs a hand down the smooth cold metal of the wall. “No,” she says. “He’s not.”


	4. Chapter 4

They touch down in New York. Bucky Barnes grew up in New York. Viewing it from above stirs no memories for the Soldier. He sits and waits for someone to undo the restraints (inadequate; he should tell them so) but no one does. After a moment Steve Rogers says, “Bucky, we’re here. You ready to go?” He sounds worried, like the new recruits who haven’t been around the Soldier much before. If he’s afraid he should use better restraints. Still, the Soldier is clearly meant to get up, so he pulls the strap apart himself. Something inside the buckle cracks and Rogers winces.

The Soldier isn’t doing this right. He will probably be disciplined later. Maybe then they’ll explain to him how to do better.

He stands up, and they exit the plane. Once they’re on the ground, Steve Rogers glances at him and says, “Is it okay if I call you Bucky? Sorry, I should’ve thought to ask.”

The Soldier stops. They keep asking him things. Why would they ask unless they were trying to catch a malfunction? He is malfunctioning. He will definitely be disciplined.

“Bucky?” He braces for a blow, but it doesn’t come. What was the question? Is it okay if I call you Bucky. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. He chooses the safest answer. “Call me whatever you want.”

Steve Rogers’s shoulders slump a little. Maybe the Soldier did it wrong after all. Not the Soldier. Bucky. They’re calling him Bucky so he’s Bucky now. It makes him grit his teeth but he won’t disobey. Bucky Barnes was someone long ago. The person they killed to make the Soldier. The Soldier—Bucky, present-Bucky—has read about him. He has a terrible thought. Is he expected to act like past-Bucky now? Maybe they think he already knows how. He’ll have to learn quickly. It will probably hurt.

The three of them get into another car. He sits in the front seat, next to Steve Rogers. He can feel the Black Widow’s eyes on him from behind, raising the hairs on his neck. They drive for a long time, and Bucky keeps his palms flat on his thighs. No threat. He doesn’t wear the restraint this time, though Rogers does—seatbelts, civilians wear them. Bucky isn’t operating at full capacity, or he would have known that. He hopes they’ll help him soon. Fix him. 

They’ll have to kill him first. His hands have curled into fists. His injury is almost healed. He could easily dive from the car at this speed. But it was Steve. Bucky was on the table and the man with the round glasses was bending over him, and he was mumbling because he couldn’t scream anymore, and then Steve. Was that real? He remembers not believing it was real. Which table? There have been a lot of tables, he thinks.

Romanova speaks from behind him and he twitches. “Soldier? Bucky? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he manages. He forces his hands flat again. He’ll cooperate, for now. He has to. Someone has to tell him what to do. What’s real.

* * *

It’s just getting dark outside when they get to Steve Rogers’s apartment in Brooklyn. It’s a walkup with a brown façade, old but in good repair. Many points of access: windows, door, fire escape. A motorcycle is parked in front. Romanova gets out but stays by the car, leaning against the passenger side door with her arms folded. Rogers asks Bucky to wait on the front steps while he goes back to talk to her. Bucky stands, since he hasn’t been told to sit. The steps are steep, worn down a little in the middle.

“You two probably want to be alone,” Romanova says. Her voice is pitched low; Bucky’s probably not supposed to hear. “But if you want, I could come back after I drop the car off.”

“God. Please,” Rogers says. Romanova’s eyebrows rise in surprise, and she nods.

Bucky approves. Neither of them alone will be able contain him. Together, they might be sufficient.

He follows Steve Rogers inside, up to the second floor, and watches as Rogers fumblingly fits his key into the lock. His coordination is supposed to be well above average. Likely compromised by emotional distress. Or possibly some form of poison.

Rogers stops just inside the front door and stands there with his arms held awkwardly at his sides. “Okay, so, this is it. I guess I should give you the tour. Uh…this is the living room. Kitchen.” Bucky follows him, noting sightlines, possible weapons. “That’s the bathroom, this is my bedroom. And…” He pushes another door open, more hesitantly. “This is your room.”

Bucky has a room. It’s already been prepared for him. Bed with dark blue bedspread and pillows, matching curtains on the window. A dresser. Bookshelf with one shelf of books, nothing he recognizes, possibly fiction. Two more shelves below it, empty. Framed photos on the wall. One of a man and woman with two children: a girl and a slightly older boy. One of Rogers and Bucky Barnes in uniform. Like in the Smithsonian. Rogers has obviously been planning this for a long time. What does that mean?

There are no bars on the window. No lock on the door. It’s nicer than any cell he’s slept in that he can remember. Right, because he remembers so much. What is Rogers thinking? He clearly has no idea how to be a handler. The Soldier—Bucky should tell him. Or maybe he should go back to Hydra. At least they know what to do with him. But the chair. 

Rogers pulls open a drawer, saying something about how he hopes the clothes are the right size and of course they can get different things if Bucky wants.

“Are you hungry? I’m not exactly a gourmet cook, but I’ve got canned soup. Oh, and there’s some frozen dinners we could microwave. You’ve seen a microwave before, right? I guess we just missed them, I mean they started making them right after we—” He breaks off. He still seems afraid. No, worried. Awkward, always tripping over his own feet. Something like that. But coordination well above average. It doesn’t make sense.

They go back to the kitchen and Rogers makes soup. Bucky eats four bowls. He hasn’t eaten anything yet today. Rogers keeps refilling his bowl so it must be all right. After, Rogers leads him to the bathroom.

“I thought you might want to take a shower. You…um. You know how to do that, right?”

“Yes.” Of course he knows. He’s been on his own for months. And he’s done missions that required long-term covers before. He doesn’t remember what they were, but the knowledge is there. Rogers points out towels, washcloths, shampoo, soap. Bucky starts to strip down and Rogers backs hastily out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The water is warm, and Bucky takes longer than he needs to, hoping Rogers won’t be angry. He’s careful cleaning the wound beneath his ribs. A lot of dirty brown water goes down the drain before he finishes. When he steps out of the shower, there’s a razor on the counter by the sink, next to a folded pile of clothes. Should he shave? He would look more like past-Bucky. Maybe Rogers would like that. He picks up the razor, carefully, with his right hand. Better for fine motor control. Sets it down again to wipe steam off the glass, meets his eyes in the mirror, flinches away. Later, maybe. The face looks strange to him. He doesn’t want it. _Who is that? Who are you?_

_Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes._

_I don’t know, I don’t_ know. _Please._

_I don’t know. Who am I?_ Nothing behind the eyes, blank canvas you can put a mask on. The Winter Soldier. The Asset. (It.) _Fine, get it out of here, I’m late for a meeting._

Rogers knocks softly on the bathroom door and he starts. “Bucky? You okay in there?”

“Yes.” He dries off quickly and dresses in the clothes provided. Pajamas. Almost his size, a little loose in the waist. He brings out the dirty clothes with all his weapons stacked in a pile on top.

In the living room, Steve Rogers is putting out pillows and blankets on the couch. For Romanova, presumably. He stops and turns to Bucky. Bucky stands there, waiting for an instruction.

“Are you…uh.” He gives the weapons a startled glance, then continues. “If you’re tired, you can go ahead and turn in now.”

Bucky nods. He turns around to head for the room that’s been designated his. Rogers will realize the room is a mistake soon and enhance the security. Or sometimes. Sometimes they give you things just to take them away. To show that they can.

“Just come get me if you need anything,” Rogers says, and Bucky stops. There’s a pause. Then Rogers says quietly, “I’m so glad you’re here, Buck.”

Bucky goes into the room. He doesn’t close the door. Maybe he can show them that he’s trustworthy. He sets down the pile of belongings and sits down on the bed and puts his palms flat on his thighs. After a while he hears Rogers greeting Romanova, and then the two of them talking quietly, but he doesn’t try to listen.

He goes over what he knows. 

He’s not going back to Hydra. He’s killed too many of them now. But he could accept the—no. He’s not going back.

Without Hydra’s treatments, he’s going to remember more. It will make him less able to function. He’s afraid of the memories and he doesn’t know if he wants them or if he wants them gone. He thinks maybe he wants them. That might be worse.

Steve Rogers is his friend, maybe, unless it’s sleeper programming or some other way they altered Bucky’s mind. 

Natalia Romanova is from the past and not to be trusted. She wants something from him and he doesn’t know what, or what the consequences of failure are. Both of them may be handlers, but he isn’t sure. They don’t know how to be handlers but maybe they’ll learn. He’s not going back to Hydra, so he has to stay with them instead. So far they haven’t hurt him. Maybe this will be better.

He doesn’t want to hurt Rogers. (He doesn’t want things.)

He’s not a good person. (Not a person.) Does Rogers know all the things he’s done? He thinks Rogers would throw him out if he knew. Or kill him. That wouldn’t be so bad, if Rogers killed him. The third option.

He lies down on top of the blankets. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, but he does.


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha stretches out on the couch, making sure she has a good view of the door and the windows. Knife and a handgun within easy reach on the floor, as usual. Steve is in his room sleeping—well. Trying to sleep. His door is open a crack, which is supposed to send the Soldier a message. Almost closed: we’re all entitled to privacy, you included. Not quite: please come in if you need something. And yes, Natasha listened to him going through the pros and cons of each door position at length.

The Soldier is, she thinks, really asleep. Good. He needs it. They all need it, to be ready for whatever happens tomorrow. They’re in over their heads and they know it. When Clint first brought her back to SHIELD, at least they had containment facilities. He made her give up all her weapons when they went in. They put her in a cell and interrogated her until she convinced them she could be trusted. Much smarter, much safer. Although she remembers the secret shivering helplessness of being alone and unarmed among the enemy and thinks maybe Steve was right to let the Soldier keep his weapons. It was kinder, certainly. The odds that the Soldier will kill one of them, however, are high. Though it might not be intentional.

She shifts, restless, tugging the blanket up to cover her chest. She has to admit she doesn’t like being here for this. Why did she offer? It makes her think about things she doesn’t want to think about. Is it the same for him, does he feel like she did, defecting? Trading one handler for another—only then, funny thing, they turned out to be the same. One nested inside the other. No wonder he’s confused.

This is a given: Natasha doesn’t know her own history. She’ll never know all of it, no matter how far she digs, how many fragments she can glue back together. There are times she can almost accept that. She tries to focus on the present. Do what needs to be done, one step at a time. Take out the threat. Then what? Call for extraction. Then what? Debrief. Go home. Try to sleep. She has a rule that after waking up three times in one night she can give up on sleeping, get out of bed and read a novel. She tells herself they’re research, useful knowledge for her more culturally literate covers. Someone hanging off a diplomat’s arm in an evening dress, tilting her head back and laughing at some clever allusion. Sometimes saying it’s research is the only way she can let herself do it.

But now a piece of her history is here, and she doesn’t know for sure how important he was, and he doesn’t know either. He’s a ghost—that’s a joke, almost. He’s here in the apartment with them and he’s still a ghost, trapped, half-erased, unable to communicate. They should give him a Ouija board. She wonders now if she was right all along and the mercy killing would have been kinder.

* * *

There’s a footstep and a light creak of the door on its hinges and Bucky wakes immediately. He sits up, left hand searching for a knife before he realizes it’s Rogers. He’ll have to unlearn that habit. You don’t pull weapons on handlers. Or friends. Probably not on friends either.

“Sorry,” Rogers says. His feet are bare and tufts of his hair are sticking up at random. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Bucky stands up and looks at Rogers, waiting for an instruction. 

Rogers winces. “You don’t have to…I mean, you can go back to sleep if you want.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

Rogers sighs. “Or we could have breakfast. Come on, I’ll make you some breakfast.”

* * *

The clock in the kitchen says 5:23 a.m. Rogers makes a massive pile of pancakes which the two of them eat in silence. Afterwards, Bucky sits there and looks at the dribbles of syrup on his plate. Wants to ask, isn’t supposed to ask. Speak when spoken to. Rogers hurt him before, on the helicarrier, which means he’ll hurt him again if Bucky makes him. And he doesn’t know what would make him. What the rules are now. With Hydra they were so clear.

Rogers just sits for a while. Watching him. The way you look at a blueprint or a map, when you have to memorize every detail. After a while he clears his throat.

“I know this must be really confusing for you. Natasha gave me some files about you, what they, uh. What they did to you.” His eyes have a gleam of moisture in them. “I know they were wiping your memories. So if there’s anything you want to know, just ask and I’ll do my best.”

“They’re unreliable.” Rogers gives him a puzzled frown and he clarifies. “The memories. They get in the way. That’s why I—” He stops. He doesn’t think Rogers has a chair like Hydra, but Bucky doesn’t want to give him any ideas.

“Why you what?” Rogers says gently. The tone makes him shiver. Gentle is never good.

He makes himself continue. “I do better without them.”

“The memories? No, Bucky. That’s just what they wanted you to think. They took away everything that made you who you are, so you wouldn’t fight back.” He stops. He’s cracked the glass he’s holding and orange juice is spilling onto the table top. There’s a bead of blood on his palm. “Damn it,” he says standing up. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room and Bucky hears water running in the bathroom. Rogers could have used the kitchen sink, he thinks.

Rogers shouldn’t have blood on his hand. He shouldn’t have blood on his hand because of Bucky. Bucky’s doing everything wrong. He’s supposed to be a friend. He’s been a friend before, as a cover on long-term assignments. Maybe he could do it again. Maybe then Rogers wouldn’t be so unhappy. But the memories make everything harder. His mind isn’t working right, and it’ll only get worse.

After a while Rogers comes back with a wad of Kleenex pressed against the cut. His eyes are bloodshot. Bucky’s fault. “Sorry,” Rogers says again, trying to smile. “I better mop this up.” He gets a paper towel for the orange juice. Bucky watches him.

Finally Bucky works his nerve up. “You said I could ask you anything.” He tenses but nothing happens, except that Rogers’s hand stills.

“Yeah. What is it, Buck?”

A faint tremor has started in Bucky's fingers. He puts his hands under the table, out of sight. “What are you going to do with me?”

Rogers looks distressed again. “What do you mean? Nothing.”

He should know better than to ask. He won’t like the answer. It’s a very old question, from when he used to ask, and an instinctive thrill of fear comes with it. He used to ask. Something else they took. “Lock me up, study me, send me on missions. Kill me. There has to be something.”

“No, Bucky. You’re my friend. I just want to help you, that’s all. I’m not going to make you do anything.”

_You’re my friend,_ like that explains everything. Bucky Barnes’s friend. He died. They killed him. Doesn’t Rogers understand that? “What am I supposed to do, then?”

“What do you want to do?” Bucky just stares at him. “You weren’t on missions every minute of your life, were you? What did you do the rest of the time?”

Bucky drops his eyes and makes his voice dispassionate. “When I’m not on missions I train. Learn new weapons, help train other assets. Or they,” he stumbles over it, “put me in cryo. To maximize my effective lifespan.”

“Not anymore.” Rogers sounds angry now. “You’re not going to do any of that anymore. There aren’t going to be any more missions.”

A flood of adrenaline surges through him, hearing it said plainly like that. He starts to tremble all over and he’s sure Rogers can see it. He presses his lips together.

Rogers tries again. “Look, if you need a goal right now, it should just be to rest and get better.” He looks at Bucky’s face and rephrases. “Readjust to civilian life.”

Bucky nods. His voice is almost steady. “Expected timeframe?”

“It’s, um…open-ended. As long as it takes.”

In Bucky’s experience ‘as long as it takes’ generally means ‘we’ll keep punishing you until you get it right.’ He nods. “Can I go back to my room now?”

“Of course. You don’t have to ask.”

He stands up carefully and goes back into his room and closes the door behind him.

* * *

Natasha waits until the Soldier's gone before coming into the kitchen. Steve is still standing there with a wad of juice-soaked paper towel in one hand and a bloody tissue in the other, staring down at the tabletop.

“Well, he went right for the big existential questions, didn’t he?” she says.

Steve looks up at her. “Did you hear all that?”

Yes. “Enough.”

“I screwed it up, didn’t I? Jesus. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

She smiles wryly. “I know. If it helps, I doubt anyone would.”

“Oh yeah, I feel a lot better now.”

At least he’s being sarcastic. That’s always a good sign.

Steve sighs. “He’s just so…empty. Worse than yesterday. I mean, I know…” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I know he’s not gonna be how he used to be. Probably not ever. But it’s just…it’s different seeing it.” 

“I don’t think he’s empty,” Natasha says slowly. “He’s scared, so he’s falling back on what he knows. He’s actually—”

There’s a crash from the Soldier’s room. They look at each other. “I’ll go,” Natasha says, and Steve nods gratefully. “It’ll be great,” she says over her shoulder. “We can take turns screwing things up.”

* * *

The Soldier is in the closet. It isn’t hard to find him because he’s ripped the door partially off its hinges, either in the process of pulling it open or trying to close it after himself. She can hear him breathing harshly, low to the ground.

She pretends the door is still an effective barrier and sits down outside it, crossing her legs. She knows he’s aware of her presence because the breathing gets quieter. He’s probably put a hand over his mouth. She almost asks if she can come in; then she thinks about whether she would have been able to say no when she was fresh out of Hydra.

What she says, eventually, is, “So I guess Steve scared the shit out of you.”

No response; absolute stillness now.

“I know you probably can’t believe this right now, but it’s okay. Freaking out is okay. Whatever you do is okay. No one is going to punish you or be mad at you. Or even stop you from doing anything, as long as you don’t hurt yourself or anyone else.”

She waits. “Do you want me to go away now? Or would you rather I stay?” Sometimes it helps to have two options, rather than just one you’re not sure you can refuse.

She doesn’t think she’s going to get a response, but after a while, he says, “Stay?” His voice is shaky and quiet.

“Okay.”

Silence.

“I think I remember you from a long time ago,” she says. Just for something to say. “But I’ve had my head messed with enough that I don’t know if it was real.”

More silence.

“Was I Bucky Barnes then?” he says eventually.

“No. You didn’t know who you were.”

Silence.

“He wants me to be Bucky Barnes again. That’s why he brought me here.”

So that’s what he took from that conversation. Not that far off the mark, unfortunately. “I’m sure Steve would like that, but he’s a smart guy. He knows you’re different now. Whoever you decide you are in the end, he’ll adjust.” She hopes.

Silence.

“I’m not anyone.” His voice is ragged. “I don’t know how to—I c—” He doesn’t say _I can’t_ because _I can’t_ is like _I won’t_ and words like that aren’t allowed. She remembers this. “What happens if I fail?”

“Nothing. Whatever you do is okay.”

Silence.

“I don’t even remember him. Hardly anything.”

“That’s okay too.”

Silence. Longer this time. 

“What if I hurt him?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“You might not be able to stop it.”

“True.” Stupid of her; she shouldn’t be lying to him. Not even to be comforting. “Steve’s pretty tough, though. And he’s willing to take the risk. And you don’t want to hurt him, do you?”

At least a minute passes before he whispers, “No.”

The silence stretches long enough this time that she starts to get uncomfortable. Too much honesty. It’s easier when it’s for a mission, when she can pretend she’s playing a role. “I’m getting up now. Is that okay? Or should I stay here?” She makes herself stay and wait for the answer, even though she’s itching to go hide in a closet herself.

Pause. “I broke the door,” he says, in such a small and terrified voice that she can’t help the laugh that slips out.

“I can one hundred percent guarantee you that no one is going to be mad at you about the door.”


	6. Chapter 6

He dreams of cold. He’s in the cryo chamber and he can’t move but in the dream it’s a long hallway and he’s floating along it. There’s something behind him that’s getting farther and farther away but he can’t go back, can’t even turn to look. Ahead of him is a door. The door is red and he doesn’t want to go through it but it keeps getting closer and closer.

He dreams that he wakes up shivering with cold and strapped to the table (which table? Does it matter?) and he screams for Steve because Steve came before, Steve saved him. Zola is there leaning over him and in his oily voice he says, Your precious captain died years ago.

He dreams that he wakes up again and his hand is around Steve Rogers’s throat. Rogers has tears in his eyes. 

“It’s me, it’s me, Bucky, you’re safe. It’s Steve, I’m Steve.”

No, Steve is just what he always says in the dream. It isn’t anyone real. They’re trying to trick him and he has to fight them, even if it never makes any difference. He can’t kill them all but this one, this one is gasping for breath and he’ll—

Something hard strikes him across the back of the head and his hand opens. He falls forward. Rogers catches him in his arms even though he’s still wheezing. Steve can’t breathe, Bucky thinks in a rush of panic. He has trouble breathing.

“Oh god, Bucky,” Rogers says. “I’m so sorry. I’m here now, I’m here. I’m sorry.”

He was the one. Bucky was on the table and Steve came, and Bucky thought it was a dream, but it wasn’t a dream, not the first time. It’s all the same Steve. He knew that. Didn’t he know that?

Steve is holding him. He puts a hand flat against Steve’s chest. Solid muscle under thin fabric. “This is real,” he says. 

“That’s right.”

He pulls away a little, his breath coming fast, remembering the hallway. “What year is it?”

“It’s 2014. October 4th.”

“October 4th,” he repeats. He looks at Steve, up and down, taking in all the details. The tufty hair and the big nose and the shirt that’s too tight because he won’t admit how much bigger he is now. This Steve. This is Steve. _Can’t sleep, huh?_ and he has to keep his back turned so Steve won’t see his face. _I’m fine,_ he says out into the trees and he doesn’t mean it to but it comes out angry. It doesn’t matter because Steve is too close now, Steve knows him too well. _It’s okay, Bucky,_ he says. _It’s over, I found you._ And he says _I know, Jesus, you don’t have to keep saying it. I’m not made of glass._ Only he is and he hates it.

“You died,” he says. His voice breaks. “You died and they made me forget you.” He believes it now. This is the true story; the other one was the lie.

“I’m here now.” Steve tries to smile. It doesn’t work very well.

Bucky’s head aches. Romanova, he thinks. He turns to look and she’s standing a safe distance away, a table lamp dangling from one hand. She must have hit him with the metal base; the lightbulb’s still intact, the shade askew.

He looks up and meets her eyes. She nods and drops the lamp as she walks out of the room.

* * *

Natasha goes into the living room and sits on the couch with her fists clenched. Steve and the Soldier stay in the bedroom. There’s no noise except for the occasional quiet murmur from Steve. After a while she gets up and goes into the kitchen. She pulls out carrots from the fridge and starts scraping and chopping them viciously. Productive. Productive uses for emotions. Healthy coping mechanisms.

He knows Steve. He was saying Steve’s name in his sleep, even now, after everything. Why is she here? She means nothing to him. What did you expect, Natalia?

She has a sizable pile of vegetables by the time something makes her turn. The Soldier; Steve would be louder. Or is it Bucky now? Never mind what he said to her before. Just trigger the right memory for him and it all comes flooding back. All the important parts.

He stands there looking at her until she says, “Yes?” Then his gaze goes to the floor.

“Thank you,” he says. “For—” He puts a hand up to the back of his head.

“Any time,” she says. A corner of her mouth quirks up involuntarily.

“You’re really his friend? You wouldn’t hurt him?”

Of course she only matters because of Steve. No, she’s being selfish and she knows it. She should be glad for him, for both of them. Getting something back. “I am. And I wouldn’t.”

He nods. “I do remember you, I think,” he says cautiously.

She goes still. “What do you remember?”

“You’re a good liar.”

She stiffens, hurt. Reaches for a joke to cover it. “It’s kind of in my job description.”

“Was it a job?” He sounds honestly curious. “You were younger. Like you said. So young.”

Her heart stutters, but she keeps her voice dry. “Gave us a head start on the competition.”

He just stands there, his brow furrowed. Opens his mouth and then closes it again.

Eventually she takes pity on him. “Do you want me to tell you what I remember?”

He looks terrified, but he says it anyway. “I think—could you?”

* * *

This is how Natasha remembers meeting the Winter Soldier the first time: she might be twelve, maybe thirteen. She’s one of twenty-eight girls in the Black Widow program. They’ve been training for months, and the competition is brutal. The girls who fail disappear and don't come back. The ones left are all doing their best to make the others fail.

They’ve been working with a number of instructors in hand-to-hand combat, short and long-range weapons, stealth. In their free time they study acting or languages, ways to blend in with their surroundings. Occasionally they sleep. Natasha is doing well. Just two days ago she pushed another girl over the brink into a sobbing meltdown, and now there’s one less competitor to worry about.

They stand in a line in the training room, backs straight, arms at their sides, waiting. A door opens at the other end of the room and a man comes in, flanked by two more in full combat gear with machine guns. Nobody looks at the men with the guns. The man between them is dressed in a black t-shirt and loose-fitting black pants, and his feet are bare, but he moves with a mesmerizing grace. Killing is in every line of his body. One of his arms flashes silver.

When he gets closer, Natasha sees that he’s younger than she thought, hair dark, face unlined. His hair is tied back in a low ponytail and his eyes are blue. The men with guns fall back to stand against a wall, watching alertly. The man with the silver arm stands in front of the row of girls and looks them over without saying anything. Finally he points to a tall, dark-haired girl at one end of the line.

“You,” he says. His voice is quiet. “Come here.” There’s an exercise mat on the floor and he moves to stand on it, facing her. She takes a fighting stance, knees bent, arms up. “Show me what you know.”

She hits the mat in less than five seconds. He doesn’t help her up. When she stands, he offers a few terse corrections, and they try again. A few more times, and he lets her go back to the line. He goes through all of them that way, never saying much. Now you. Again. Faster this time. Natasha is near the end, so she’s had time to learn something about his fighting style by the time he gets to her. He’s much bigger, of course, and stronger, but so are all their opponents. Surprisingly fast for his size, and the arm is like nothing she’s ever seen. She thought it might be some kind of armor until she heard the whirring.

When it’s her turn, it takes him nearly a minute to take her down. She uses her small size to her advantage, ducking and dodging to avoid his blows. When she anticipates one of his moves and counters it she sees a spark of pleasure in his eyes. Or anger. Either way. When she gets up from the mat for the third time, he says, “Good,” and she glows inside.

They train with him for a few months, she thinks. He has them spar with each other while he works with them one on one. Everyone is terrified of him, Natasha included. But at the same time she wants to be like him. That ruthless, that invulnerable. He fights with brutal efficiency, holding back less and less as the weeks go by. He never breaks bones, but anything less severe is fair game. He never gives a name. She gets it from rumors, the other girls, the instructors. They call him the Winter Soldier. He’s a robot, he’s immortal. You’re lucky to be working with him. Lucky he hasn’t killed you. 

Natasha always lasts the longest when they spar. After a while, he doesn’t even always win. He never talks much, but she can tell he’s pleased with her. She’s not supposed to care about that. His Russian is flawless, but sometimes she imagines she catches a trace of an accent. American? Some of the girls make up stories about where he came from, but she doesn’t waste her time on that kind of thing.

One day he comes in distracted. Most of the girls don’t seem to notice, but Natasha can tell something is off. He moves a little more stiffly than usual, glances at the guards more often. Natasha presses her advantage when they spar, and when things get heated he dislocates her shoulder. She can’t help the noise she makes as she hits the mat.

He stands there staring down at her a moment too long, then shakes his head as if to clear it. Reaches out a hand to help her up. She grimaces as she gets to her feet.

“Don’t let it show,” he says in her ear, before he lets go of her. “They don’t like that.”

When he stops coming in, no one tells them why, and they know better than to ask.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky hasn’t come out of his room by mid-morning. (Steve looks like he might punch something if Natasha calls him "the Soldier" one more time, so she's trying to be flexible.) Steve keeps looking anxiously down the hallway from the kitchen table where they’re sitting. Occasionally he takes a sip from his cooling third cup of coffee, or picks at stray crumbs in the remaining box of donuts, from which he thoughtfully ate only three. The first box is already empty. Natasha is sitting with her legs crossed, reading a book and feigning unconcern.

Steve twists in his chair once again to look toward Bucky’s room, then turns back with a sigh. “Well, I hope he’s catching up on sleep, at least.”

“Mm,” Natasha agrees. “Or maybe he’s been sitting in there awake since the crack of dawn, waiting for someone to give him an order.”

“Oh god,” Steve says, rubbing his face. “Do you think so? Maybe I better—”

“I was joking,” Natasha says. “Mostly.”

They both fall silent as Bucky finally emerges. He’s still in his pajamas, and his hair is a tangled mess, and he looks absolutely miserable to be awake. He shuffles halfway down the hall and then stops uncertainly.

Steve waves, trying to catch his eye. “Bucky!” he says, overdoing the hearty cheer. Bucky flinches, then focuses on him. “Want some breakfast? Natasha got donuts. And there’s coffee if you want, you used to be religious about coffee in the mornings…” Steve trails off, giving Natasha a look that says _Maybe I shouldn’t have said that._

Bucky doesn’t react except to come into the kitchen and sit down hesitantly in the only empty chair. He looks at the donut box but doesn’t move.

“Those are for you,” Steve says. “Go ahead, we already had plenty.”

Bucky reaches for the box and starts mechanically eating donuts. Which is a shame, because they’re donuts that deserve to be savored. Natasha gets up and pours him a mug of coffee, and he drinks that, too, with no indication of it being a religious experience.

“Sleep okay?” Steve tries.

Bucky frowns at him. “Six hours,” he says finally. Not great, but probably more than he’s been getting.

No one says anything else until Bucky has finished off the donuts. When he’s done, he just keeps sitting there. He doesn’t look blank. He looks uncomfortable.

“So,” Steve says eventually. “What do—is there anything you want to do today?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Okay, well how about—”

“Wait.” For a second he looks terrified that he interrupted. When Steve just keeps looking at him expectantly, he takes a deep breath. “You said there was a file about me.”

Steve looks wary. “That’s right."

“Can I see it?” Natasha can see him bracing for a punishment of some kind, at least a reprimand. Her fingers curl tighter around the pages of her book. He was a real person and he helped teach her and they did this to him. Made him this afraid. She doesn’t know why the anger's only hitting her now.

Steve’s voice goes gentle. “Buck…I don’t think that’s such a good idea. There’s some pretty rough stuff in there. I just…I don’t want it to upset you.”

“Okay,” Bucky says in a dull voice.

“Maybe later, when you’re feeling a little better…”

He just nods.

Steve leads Bucky into the living room, and Natasha hears him casting around for something to do. He suggests they read a book, or play a card game, then at Bucky’s lack of reaction decides to aim lower and turns the TV on, switching the channel to some cooking show. Seems safe enough; it’s not as if Bucky is upset by knives.

After a minute, Steve comes back into the kitchen to clean up the mess from breakfast, and Natasha slams her book down on the table and stands up. Steve gives her a startled look.

“You should let him see the file,” she says.

Steve shakes his head. “How can I?” he says in a lowered voice. “What if it gives him flashbacks or something?”

“He’s the one who lived it.” She doesn’t really care if Bucky overhears her. “He’s not a child and he’s not stupid. You can’t lie to him. He deserves to know.”

Steve sits down and rests his elbows on the table, rubbing his forehead. “It’s gonna screw him up.”

“Probably, yeah. But you have to do it anyway.” Natasha sits down next to him. “Just…be there afterward.”

* * *

Bucky looks up when Steve comes back into the room. There’s something playing on the TV, but once he figured out it was nothing Steve wanted him to absorb, he stopped paying attention. He doesn’t know what to make of the conversation in the kitchen. He isn’t sure why Natasha feels so strongly about the file. Maybe there’s information about her in it? But she could just tell him, couldn’t she? It would make more sense if she were trying to keep him from reading it.

Maybe, he thinks, they staged the conversation so that Natasha would seem more sympathetic to him. She’s been colder than Steve up to now. No, they’re supposed to be his friends, and friends wouldn’t do that, would they? He’s not sure. Steve at least is his friend. He trusts Steve. Wants to trust him. And Steve trusts Natasha, and she did tell Bucky the truth about not letting him hurt Steve, but he can’t do it. Not with the things he knows about her. 

She was Hydra. One of them. A good liar. He shot her once and she wanted to make sure he remembered it, so maybe she’s angry with him. He has a fragment of her younger now, too, knobby elbows and bright, determined eyes. That Natasha. She had a knack for violence even then. She says that she admired him, but he helped make her what she is, and he thinks maybe she should want revenge for that.

Steve has a thin brown folder in one hand, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Natasha says I should show you this,” he says. Bucky stares at him. He wasn’t expecting to actually see the file. Maybe Natasha outranks Steve. He thought they were equals. He wishes he understood the rules.

“Maybe she’s right,” Steve goes on. “I mean, she knows more about this than I do.” He crosses the room and sits down on the couch next to Bucky, not too close. “I’m gonna stay here with you while you read it, though, okay? Just to make sure you’re all right. And if you start feeling bad, I want you to stop reading. Please? Can you promise me you’ll do that?”

“Okay.” Bucky looks at the file Steve’s holding out to him. Puts his hand on it, the metal one. Takes it. He waits but nothing happens.

It’s not a trick, then. He thinks it isn’t. “Thank you,” he says. It seems like a thing friends say. He opens the folder. There’s an old photo of Bucky Barnes in his military uniform. A larger one of himself in the cryo chamber. He’s never thought about what that looked like from the outside. More photos, the eyes increasingly wild and then increasingly calm again. Documents with half the words blacked out. Pictures of corpses, confirmed kills. Some of them stir echoes of memory. That one was in China, he thinks. That one was Argentina. He flips past them quickly. He thinks they’re probably the thing Steve is most upset about. Without the memories, Bucky never realized just how many kills there were. They didn’t want him to know.

There are schematics of the arm, a description of the original grafting process (the whir of the saw). Conditioning, experimental procedures, drugs (acid in the veins). The chair, him in the chair, and he never wanted to know what that looked like either. He drops that one like it’s burned him.

Steve is saying something. “—New York, and you tried to get away from them—” but he can’t focus on it. He's quiet for a while, thinking.

“Bucky?” Steve sounds worried.

“This makes sense,” he says. It feels like his voice is coming from far away.

“It does?”

It fits what he remembers. Bridges the gap between Bucky Barnes and himself. “It explains why they had to hurt me so much.”

Steve sucks in a breath. “They didn’t have to. They chose to.”

He shrugs. Steve is picky about words.

There’s a kind of relief in it. The word torture isn’t used but he can read between the lines. He’s seen people tortured. Done it himself, when required. Everyone breaks eventually. This is what they did to him. They lied to him, they made him forget Steve. The Red Room, Arnim Zola. Hydra. They tortured Bucky Barnes, they broke him, they turned him into this thing. What he is now. Remains of a person.

But he could have killed himself, at least. He shivers. _Now we’re going to make very sure you never try that again, do you understand?_

Steve is talking again. “—so sorry, Bucky. When I think about what you went through—if I’d just looked for you. I’d give anything to go back and stop it.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says. “It wasn’t me.”

Steve goes still. “What do you mean?”

“It was Bucky Barnes,” he explains. “They made me out of him.”

“You _are_ him,” Steve says, frowning. “I know you’ve changed a lot, but you’re still you.”

“I’m not.” He hunches his shoulders. Maybe Steve won’t be angry to be contradicted if Bucky can make him feel less guilty. “He was a person.”

Steve is quiet for a long time. When Bucky steals a glance at him there are tear tracks running down both cheeks. He cries a lot for a superhero.

“Bucky, you’re still a person.”

Don’t argue. He should know better. “Yes, sir.” It slips out before he can stop himself. He’s been editing out the sirs because they’re supposed to be friends and friends don’t say sir. He’s pretty sure they don’t. He wants to get it right but he keeps making mistakes.

Steve’s face twists up and he turns his back quickly. “I’m going to—I have to—” He walks out of the room.

* * *

After a while Natasha comes in. Bucky’s still sitting there with the folder in his lap. He’s flipped it closed because he doesn’t want to look at the chair.

“Hi,” she says. She sits down where Steve was, only farther away, and perched on the edge of the cushion like a bird about to take flight. Her voice is perfectly calm, though. “Steve asked me to come sit with you.”

“Where is he?”

“He went down to the basement to destroy a few punching bags.” She reads his expression correctly. “He’s not mad at you.”

Bucky wants to believe it. He nods. He has a sense that Steve gets mad a lot, but for some reason there’s no fear associated with the memory.

“He’s mad at Hydra?” he ventures.

Natasha nods.

“For what they did to—me.” He clasps his hands together, biting his lip. “I told him I wasn’t a person. I was trying to make him feel better.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “I can see how that might not have gone over well.”

“But he’s—” Bucky grits his teeth. “He’s upset over things that happened to Bucky Barnes sixty or seventy years ago. And I know I’m supposed to be Bucky now,” he adds hastily, “but I’m not _his_ Bucky. I barely remember those things.”

“Well, Steve doesn’t see it that way. To him you’re still his best friend, who he cares about, who went through something awful. That’s a good thing,” she adds. “It means he’ll treat you that way.”

Bucky runs his hands through his hair. “Until he realizes I’m not.”

“You might be surprised.” Natasha chews her lip and looks away from him—uncomfortable, or pretending to be. “If you’re not a person, then what are you?”

“A weapon.” The response is automatic; somebody at some point made very sure he was clear about that.

She meets his eyes. “That’s what they told you.”

He nods.

She’s quiet for a while. She starts to say something, then stops. Pages half-heartedly through an art book on the coffee table.

Finally she says, “I don’t like to talk about it. Where I came from. The Red Room,” she manages on the third try. “But I think maybe I owe it to you.”

She told him about how they trained together. Isn’t that enough? “I read the file,” he offers.

“Most of it’s not in the file.” Her gaze goes distant. “When I think about who I was back then…she was a different person. Or maybe not a person.” She laughs shortly. “Until I was fifteen or sixteen, I bought into everything they taught me. I believed in it so passionately, I was so proud of what I did for them. I can barely imagine being that girl anymore.

“When Clint—Clint Barton, Hawkeye, I don’t think you’ve met him—when he recruited me for SHIELD, I thought I knew what he wanted from me. My skills as a spy, obviously. And…other skills. It took me a long time to realize that I could lose all of that and he’d still care about me as a person. That I wasn’t a…a tool. And it took me even longer to realize that had been true all along, and that was how I deserved to be treated. The Red Room didn’t raise me to be a person. They never gave me a chance.”

She tosses her hair and smiles like it doesn’t matter. “Anyway. I was angry with them, and I spent some time making their lives as hard as I could, and then I felt better.” She hesitates. “Are you angry? Knowing what they did to you?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “I…should be?”

She stretches her legs out, more relaxed now. Trying to be. “Well, you killed enough of them, when Steve was on your trail.”

He tenses. “That was just…to stop them.” He’s not supposed to be angry. “I was unstable. I don’t know.”

“And how’s that going now? The instability?” She gives him a sidelong glance.

He looks down at his hands so that his hair falls in his face. He wants to lie but you have to give accurate status reports or you endanger the whole operation. “I keep remembering more. Dreaming it.” He takes a deep breath. “If it goes on like this, soon I won’t be able to function at all.”

She touches his hand, just a light brush, moving slow enough that he could shift away if he wanted to. He holds still. “Maybe you don’t need to function as a weapon anymore. Maybe it’s time to be something else.”

It sounds nice, but he doesn’t have any idea what it means.


	8. Chapter 8

The second time Natasha meets the Winter Soldier, she’s about sixteen and he doesn’t remember her at all. When she comes in for the mission briefing, his blue eyes flick over her without a trace of recognition, and her pride is hurt. She was the best in the class. She takes it as a lesson: you’re not important, just one cog in a vast machine. Don’t go getting cocky.

They get off a plane together in France, a few hours from Paris. It's just them and the pilot for the whole trip, and the Soldier is mostly quiet, cleaning guns, polishing knives. Natasha watches him, trying to understand. She knows he helped train her, but maybe they’re not supposed to talk about that. When he notices her interest, he raises an eyebrow at her until she looks away. 

They pick up the van that’s been left in a secluded area for them and make the drive into the city. He drives, while she watches him from the passenger seat.

“You know,” she says, summoning an alluring smile, “I could take over for a while, if you want.” They’re speaking French, not Russian. Standard practice. When in Rome.

He grunts. “I don’t think so.”

“You think I don’t know how to drive?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “You look too young. It might attract attention.” It’s true; her hair is blonde right now and she’s got it in braids to make her look younger, more innocent.

She’s silent, arms folded across her chest. “I’m older than I look,” she says eventually. “This isn’t my first assignment, you know.” She doesn’t know why. Yes, she does. She doesn’t want him to think of her that way. She wants him to remember her this time.

A corner of his mouth twitches up. “I’m well aware of that.”

Natasha, encouraged, leans closer to him. “What else do you know about me?”

His face shutters again. “That you’re a good operative who doesn’t ask unnecessary questions.”

* * *

Their base of operations in the city is ready and waiting for them: an empty house with spider web cracks in the windows and mold on the walls. The targets are a pair of traitors, husband and wife, planning to defect to SHIELD with valuable chemical formulas. Natasha gets first move. They have two young children, so her job is to climb in the window of their babysitter's house and slit her throat. Then show up at the couple's house the next day with a sunny smile and a letter of apology in the dead girl’s handwriting, explaining about her family’s sudden move and recommending Natasha as her replacement. Adele, rather. Her name is Adele right now. Her assignment is simple: case the house for the Soldier, find and destroy any documents the couple shouldn’t have, get the children out of the way so he can take care of the parents.

That first night, everything goes to plan, and she gets back to the base before eight p.m., not a hair out of place. The girl’s body won’t be found any time soon.

The Soldier looks up when he sees her. “It’s done?”

She nods.

“Good.” She can’t help the flush of warmth in her chest. He gestures at her. “You’ve got a little blood on your wrist there.”

“Careless of me.” She goes into the bathroom and washes it off.

* * *

There’s another piece that she thinks might go here but she’s not sure. They’re in a room together, but maybe not the same room. The wallpaper is faded green with a yellow fleur de lis pattern. They’re sitting in folding chairs at a spindly table, playing cards. He’s ahead but she’s holding her own.

He smiles at her latest play, impressed, and she says, “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

The smile vanishes. “I remember what I need to remember.” He redirects the conversation. “Everything set for tomorrow?”

She frowns at him and lowers her voice. “They did something to you, didn’t they. You don’t know what?”

He leans forward, eyes like ice. “Natalia,” he says. “You know better than to ask me that.” He’s speaking Russian now, not…French? Whatever language they were speaking before. “If there’s anything out of line about your behavior in the field, I’ll report it to my superiors when we get back. I expect you to do the same for me.”

“Fine.” She sits back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, loose and casual. She’s not afraid of him. She isn’t. “Your move.”

* * *

The mission goes wrong. Just bad luck, really. She finds more hidden files in the basement at the last minute and there isn’t time to destroy them and get the children out of the house, too. So they’re still there when the Winter Soldier comes in. A curly-haired boy, six, and his sister, three. Natasha pulls them into a closet with her so they don’t see the Soldier knife their father and strangle their mother, but it’s too late to keep them from glimpsing him. And they’ve seen enough to know that Natasha’s working with him, too. Whoever they tell will work it out, even if they can’t.

She comes out when the sounds of struggle have ceased. The Soldier’s in the living room, kneeling by a knocked-over lamp, checking the pulse at the mother’s throat.

“Let’s go,” he says when he sees Natasha, but as he gets to his feet the boy in the closet starts crying.

The Soldier looks at her. “They’re acceptable collateral damage,” he says, and starts toward the closet door. 

She knows that, of course. Not ideal, but better than the alternative. She knows better. She stiffens her spine. “No,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

“Hurry up, then.” He glances toward the window. No one coming for them, not yet.

She goes to the closet. Can hear him following a few paces behind her. He doesn't trust her. She opens the door, lifts the gun and clicks the safety off. The children are both wailing now.

She can’t make her finger move. But she has to. Weakness is abhorrent. Weakness is abhorrent, so she pulls the trigger. Bam, bam. Two shots to the head, two small crumpled bodies. Simple.

He gets her into the car and she sits there and shakes as they drive away. No sobs, she won’t allow herself that, but the tears stream silently down her face. 

It’s almost dark and he’s driving as fast as he can get away with, though no one seems to be on their tail. “Are you with me?” he says to her, and then, “Natalia.”

She stares down at her hands, the gun still dangling between them. “They were just kids,” she whispers.

“I know.” He hesitates, then takes his right hand off the wheel and puts it clumsily on her shoulder. She shifts a little but keeps it from being a flinch. “It had to be done,” he says. “For the mission. It was good. You did well.”

“Screw the mission,” she says, and the venom in her own voice surprises her. He recoils. Puts his hand back on the wheel. She thinks that’s the end of it, but five minutes later he pulls the car over on the side of the road. His voice, when he speaks, is very serious. 

“You can’t say things like that.” She laughs bitterly. “Natalia, please listen. Listen to me.” He waits until she gives in and meets his eyes. “If you say things like that, they’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” she says. It comes out a harsh croak.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he says, “I do.” Then he makes his face blank and they never speak of it again.

They’re supposed to report aberrations in behavior, but somehow she’s never disciplined for what happened. In hindsight, she wonders what he told them instead of the truth. And whether he paid for it.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky wakes up in the dark and he can’t remember where he is. It’s cold and there’s carpet under him but when he flails his arms out they don't touch anything solid and for a second he can't breathe. He could be anywhere, any time. He stumbles to his feet, hits a wall, then a dresser, then gets his palm flat against another wall and traces it to the light switch. The light makes him squint. Just a room. Right. His room. Hydra doesn’t have him; he’s safe. They keep saying he’s safe.

He leans against the wall, head down, panting. He has to get out. Starts to twist the doorknob but Natasha is out there in the living room, asleep on the couch, and he can’t. He paces the length of the room instead but it just makes him feel more trapped. Come on, he tells himself. Don’t be stupid. Look at the room. It’s a nice room. Much nicer than he’s used to which generally means it won’t last and he should be ready for—

Footsteps outside the door. He freezes. There’s a soft knock.

“It’s me.” Her voice is low. Probably trying not to wake Steve up. “Natasha.”

“I know.” Her steps are much lighter than Steve's. He doesn’t mean to sound so out of breath.

“Can I come in?”

He’s supposed to say yes. They can do whatever they want but they want him to say yes so they’ll feel better about themselves. He doesn’t trust himself not to say it. He doesn’t say anything. His shirt is damp with sweat; he can feel it sticking to his back.

“Bucky?” He thinks it’s the first time she’s called him that. She must want something. “I heard you moving around, so I thought maybe if you didn’t mind…I could use a little company.”

Clever, isn’t she. Turning it around so it’s him doing her the favor. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or angry.

He goes over and cracks the door open, stepping back. She glances quickly around the room, then goes to the immaculately made bed and sits down. Her hair is shiny and sleek, even at—he checks the watch. The watch is still there. 3:17 a.m.

“I had a nightmare.” She’s staring at a spot on the floor now, eyes unfocused. She bites her lip. “About the Red Room. They were experimenting on me, I think. Holding me down. I couldn’t—” She breaks off, like she can’t stand to finish. Too much, he thinks. He narrows his eyes. 

“You’re lying.”

Her posture loosens, and she tilts her head. “All right, yes, I’m lying.”

They're not supposed to admit it. “Why?”

She shrugs. “It’s easier. And I thought you might feel more like sharing if you weren’t the only one. I haven’t actually slept yet.”

He’s still standing in the middle of the floor. He could leave. Could he leave? Ask her to leave. Steve makes sense; Steve is clinging to the ghost of his best friend, but Natasha. Natasha is harder. He could get it wrong. “That’s what you want? To hear about my dreams?”

She must see something in his face. Her voice goes less hard and brittle. “Only if you want to tell me. You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to,” he repeats, trying it out. He feels stupid for saying it out loud but it makes him feel better anyway. He hesitates, then sits down on the floor, cross-legged, keeping his distance.

“I was trying not to lie to you,” she says. Her mouth quirks. It’s not really a smile. “Force of habit, I guess.” She looks like she wants to say more but it’s hard for her to get it out. He waits, watching her. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know if he should ask, but finally he makes himself do it. The hell with it. “Do you really have trouble sleeping?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Not all the time. Luckily I can usually get by on five or six hours.” She says it so casually. How does she do that?

“Do you ever dream about…" He swallows. "You know.”

“Of course.”

“What do you…”

Her voice goes bright and hard again. She tosses her hair. “Well, let’s see. My favorite is the one where I’ve got the wife of a diplomat held hostage and they tell me to kill her, make it ugly, send a message.” She tries to laugh. “You wouldn’t think I could make it any worse than it actually was, but the mind is an amazing instrument.”

He brushes his fingers over the soft bristles of the carpet. Thinks about whether he should say it, whether he can. “I just keep seeing—them doing things to me. Being strapped down. There was a—a chair they used to—”

“I know.” She says it so quickly that he gives her a sharp look, but she doesn’t elaborate.

He runs his hands through his hair, frowning. “I mean, I dream the other stuff too. The killing. But it doesn’t…bother me as much. Because I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. I should probably…I mean. That should feel worse. Shouldn’t it?”

“Not even having nightmares right, Barnes? Lackluster.”

He starts to apologize until he realizes it’s a joke. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It doesn’t feel like a thing to joke about. Steve wouldn’t. But maybe it’s good that she trusts Bucky to know she's joking. Maybe she can show him how she does it.

* * *

They stay up later than they should, talking. Well. Natasha does most of the talking. She ends up telling him about the Paris mission, partly because she wants to show him he was never a compassionless robot, partly (and more selfishly) because she needs to know if she made it up. For a while he just sits there looking up at her with big eyes, absorbing everything, and she thinks, Oh god, this could all be a fantasy and he’d believe every word of it.

But eventually he opens his mouth and closes it, like he wants to say something, and she stops, holding her breath.

“We were driving.” He glances at her for confirmation. “You…wanted to drive?”

She hopes her relief isn't too obvious. “That’s right.”

“And your hair was in braids. That was you.” He's looking at something far away. “We got a flat tire, and you helped me put on the spare. I was worried someone would stop and try to help us. We had so many weapons in the car.”

“We would’ve had to kill them,” Natasha agrees. She sounds happier about it than she probably should; she didn’t remember that part until now.

She tells him the rest of the story, and he adds a few more fragments that seem to fit. He doesn’t flinch at the murdered children, but when she tells him he admitted to caring if she got hurt, he gets a look of pure horror.

“I said that?”

“Yep. I mean, I think so,” she adds, self-mocking. “90% sure. Okay, 85.”

“I must have really…” He shivers suddenly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She leaves around five, when his eyelids are starting to droop enough that he might actually get back to sleep. She doesn’t think he’ll manage it while she’s still in the room. That would be asking too much.

* * *

Steve wants to fix the closet door. He thinks it’s important that Bucky have a nice space, that things don’t stay broken. Natasha doesn’t see the big deal; she doubts Bucky notices much about the room beyond points of entry and where the weapons are stashed. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t even sleep in the bed, going by the untouched blankets the night before. Steve says maybe he just makes it very neatly whenever he gets up. Steve is an optimist.

He’s jittery all morning, waiting for Bucky to wake up so he can ask about the door. Keeps trying to read a book, jiggling his leg nervously up and down, turning a page and then turning back because he hasn’t absorbed anything he’s read. 

Bucky finally stumbles out of his room around noon. He’s definitely not a morning person. Steve has to nudge him into eating, and he freezes up when presented with multiple options, so in the end Steve just gives him a massive bowl of cereal and tells him to pour himself more if he wants it. Natasha doesn’t like to think about Steve’s grocery budget.

“So, Bucky, I was thinking,” Steve starts. Bucky freezes with his hand on the spoon. “No, go ahead, you can keep eating. It’s just…about the closet in your room…”

The spoon bends into a U shape. “I didn’t mean to,” Bucky says to his bowl. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s totally okay. I was just thinking, maybe, if you don’t mind, I could go in there and fix it for you?”

Bucky starts to nod automatically. He stops partway. There’s a long pause. “I don’t have to,” he says finally.

“That’s right,” Steve says. He frowns at Natasha, trying to figure out what’s going on. Starts to say something else, but she shakes her head minutely at him.

Bucky is very still. “I’ll think about it.” She can see him bracing himself.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Whatever you want, Buck.”

Bucky looks up at him. “You won’t do anything to it? Until I decide?”

“That’s right.” Steve’s starting to get it now. “It’s your room. Your space. Completely up to you.”

Bucky relaxes a fraction. Then his eyes dart away again. “There isn’t a lock.”

“Oh! You want a lock? Yeah, we could put one in, no problem.” Steve scratches his head. “I mean, I guess I’m a little worried about what would happen if you needed help for some reason, and we couldn’t get to you…but I could always break the door down if I had to—not that I would! Otherwise, I mean.”

Bucky doesn’t interrupt him, just lets him finish digging his hole and trail off. “On the outside.”

Steve takes a moment to process that. “No,” he says slowly. “Why would there be?”

Bucky looks embarrassed. Which is probably better than blank. “For security,” he mumbles.

Steve goes all soft and sad again. Natasha twitches. If it were her, she would hate this. But maybe Bucky finds it comforting. “Bucky, you do understand that you’re not a prisoner, right?”

Bucky just sits there. He’s still holding the remains of the spoon. He says something inaudible and Steve has to ask him to repeat it. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Natasha cuts in. “I hate to break it to you guys, but there are exactly zero doors in this apartment that are Cap-proof _or_ Soldier-proof. Or walls, for that matter,” she adds, with a glance at Steve. “So we’re all just going to have to trust each other.”

Bucky nods, subdued. Once he's sure they don't want anything else from him, he goes back to eating his cereal.

* * *

Bucky seems pretty worn out after the door conversation, so he and Steve end up sitting on opposite ends of the couch listening to music from Steve’s iPod. Steve’s got his book out again, but he’s not really reading it. Bucky seems perfectly happy to just sit there. Natasha would worry that he’s gone catatonic or something, except that he glances at Steve every now and then like he’s waiting to be told to do something else. Steve just gives him a reassuring smile. After about an hour, Bucky falls asleep again, his head leaning against the back of the couch, hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. It looks really uncomfortable, but they don’t want to risk waking him up by trying to move him.

He wakes up again around dinnertime and comes into the kitchen, where Steve and Natasha are eating spaghetti. His hands are still in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

“About the door,” he says with no preamble. “Maybe you should just leave it that way.”

Steve looks disappointed. “Are you sure?” Natasha can see him composing a moving speech about how Bucky deserves happiness and love and everything that was ever denied to him, which obviously includes working doors, but Bucky just nods before he can start.

“Might be more useful. I could throw it at someone if I needed to.” He turns around, and they can hear him go into his bedroom and close the door.

Steve frowns after him. “Was that…a joke?”

Natasha’s not actually sure. Not a lot of data for comparison. “I think so?”

Steve gets a big goofy smile that he wears for the rest of the day.


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky wakes up in the bed. His bed. Last night was the first time he tried sleeping in it, and only because Steve asked him to. He said, how about Bucky tried it for just one night, and if he didn’t like it, Steve wouldn’t mention it again. And then he said, You don’t have to, which was good because Bucky has trouble remembering that. And bad because he doesn’t like Steve knowing. He’s not a child and he’s not stupid (Natasha said so) but in some ways he might as well be. Two-year-olds can say no, for Christ’s sake. He’s not very good at being a person.

The bed isn’t so bad. Not soft enough to feel like a trap, if he needs to get up in a hurry. He can’t lie on his back without thinking about straps holding him down, but if he turns on his side it’s all right. He doesn’t actually feel rested—he feels tired and achy and like he could easily sleep for another twelve hours, but that’s how he always feels when he wakes up. At least he doesn’t remember what he dreamed.

He’s awake and it’s morning, October, 2014 and all of this is real, not a dream or a hallucination. His mission is to adjust to civilian life. Translation: be a person. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Timeframe: indefinite. What is he supposed to do with indefinite time? No orders. A self-directed mission. He’s good at those, when they let him do them. When they give him all the data. He doesn’t have much data now.

He gets up and goes to shower. He doesn’t take his new watch off, because Steve says it’s completely waterproof. Steve gave it to him. The watch has the date on it: month, day, year. He checks to make sure: still October, still 2014. The day is what it should be. It’s not entirely tamper-proof but it’s analog, not digital, so it probably can’t be changed remotely. They’d have to sedate him. He doesn’t think they do that.

He can handle showering. Tight space, walls too close, but warm, not cold, so it’s all right. Though the heat makes him shaky for some reason. He thinks about his joke again to distract himself. It makes a smile creep across his lips. He didn't think he could do it. He was standing just out of sight watching Steve and Natasha together in the kitchen and his heart was pounding like he’d been running flat out. Told himself, Natasha makes jokes. The Steve in his memories makes jokes. (Steve in the present is too sad or too careful, but Bucky remembers that right, he knows he does.) Bucky Barnes made jokes. Which is the main thing.

He had to go and hide in his room afterward, but he knows he did it right because Steve was in such a good mood all the next day. Sub-mission accomplished. Two-year-olds don’t make jokes, do they? People do. Maybe he’ll try it again sometime. But not yet, because the thought makes his heart race. Things have been going well. That means he needs to keep doing better no matter how hard it is. He doesn’t want to disappoint them. Okay. Water off, first pathetically simple task accomplished.

He gets stuck on clothes, because there are too many of them. Long enough that Steve comes to check on him. Failure. Bucky’s sitting on the bed in his underwear, staring somewhere between the closet and the half-open dresser drawers.

“Hey,” Steve says. “You getting dressed? About ready for some breakfast?”

No, I’m completely failing to get dressed because I have the brains of a cauliflower. Someone said that about him, once. Must have been after a particularly bad wipe because he remembers the pain, the way his muscles twitched. He doesn’t say anything to Steve. It’s hard to get the words out. He just sits there.

Steve sits down next to him. Not too close. “You want me to pick something for you? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

He wants to do it himself. He wants to be _able_ to do it himself. Sometimes it helps if he remembers it’s a mission. Blend in with civilians, select appropriate attire. But now Steve’s here and Steve will be watching if he gets it wrong. 

“Can you?” he mumbles eventually. He rubs his forehead with his hand.

“Sure thing.” Steve has a frown between his eyebrows, but he’s trying to be cheerful.

* * *

They don’t do anything complicated during the day. The simple things are hard enough. Eating, sleeping. TV or movies or listening to music. He knows Steve and Natasha check everything ahead of time to make sure it’s reasonably safe. Sometimes it works and he doesn’t end up panicking over the stupidest, most random things. Sometimes it doesn’t, because he’s a fucking mess and Hydra would definitely have decommissioned him by now. Still, when he doesn’t panic, he likes the TV or music best. Because it doesn’t matter if he drifts and loses the thread. He can just sit and be quiet. 

A couple of times they’ve tried card games, board games, and he’s good at them at first, he picks up the rules quickly, but then he loses the thread. Where am I, why am I doing this? What am I supposed to do now? Failure. Failure is the worst thing. Either he gets scared or he gets frustrated and ends up knocking things off the table. It’s embarrassing either way.

Today Steve suggests he try reading one of the books in his room. It used to be one of his favorites, Steve says. It’s a science fiction paperback with a bright orange and green cover. Bucky sits in the living room and tries, but it’s hard to concentrate. He keeps blanking out with his eyes on the page and needing to check his watch to see how much time has passed. 

When he finally gets past the prologue things start connecting to memories and that’s even more distracting. Flashes of himself (himself? Is he allowed to say that?) and the smaller Steve together, sprawled on a ratty couch or out on a fire escape. Once surrounded by pillows, big shapes tilting together over their heads. He’s reading out loud and Steve is drawing with a broken pencil stub on a piece of brown paper. Steve’s drawing a space monster, because Bucky asked him to. The monster has Bucky’s face.

“Bucky,” Steve is saying. Bucky doesn’t think it’s the first time he’s said it. He looks up.

“You still reading?” He can probably tell the answer is no. He looks hopeful, though. “Any of it ring a bell?”

Bucky looks down, the book dangling from his hands. “I didn’t get very far.”

“That’s okay.” He sits down next to Bucky, puts a hand on Bucky’s neck. Bucky flinches and he draws it back immediately. Bucky’s partly relieved and partly wants to tell him to leave his hand where it is; it’s a stupid reflex and he can’t help it, it doesn’t mean anything. “You want to keep doing that, or would you rather try something else?”

“It doesn’t…stick in my head.” That wasn’t the question. He didn’t answer the question. “Something else. Maybe. If that’s okay.”

Steve gets his hesitant face. “You know, if you wanted to…we know some really good doctors who’d be happy to take a look at you, maybe figure out what’s going on in your head. Take some scans of your brain, get a better picture of the damage. Maybe then we’d know the best way to help.” The pages of the book are bending under Bucky’s fingers and it’s probably going to leave a crease but Steve doesn’t notice. “We wouldn’t even have to leave the apartment, we could have somebody come here.” 

Bucky is very still. He looks at the floor and doesn’t move at all except to nod. He waits until Steve gets up and then he goes to his bedroom.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. World-class assassin hiding in a closet like a kid scared of monsters. It’s small and dark and a row of shirts brushes the top of his head if he sits up straight. There are a couple of shoeboxes against the wall. The door is still half off its hinges but he likes that because he made it that way. It stayed that way because he said no. 

Steve comes in after a while and tries to talk to him, and then later Natasha, but he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s not panicking (not anymore) but the words won’t come out. Eventually they leave him alone.

Finally he gets hungry enough that he braces himself and comes out on his own. They’re in the kitchen with a couple boxes of pizza and it smells wonderful. He has to do this part, where they look at him and he’s ashamed. Get it over with. Act normal.

“Hey, Bucky,” Natasha says. Her mouth is half full. She’s going to pretend everything is fine. He can tell Steve still wants to talk about earlier. He wavers between the two of them, elbows clasped in his hands. Finally he takes a deep breath. 

“No doctors,” he says, so quietly he’s not sure they can hear. “Please.”

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve says. He sounds so sincere. He makes it so easy, it’s like Bucky tried to punch through a wall and it turned out to be made of smoke. Please is just something you say. It isn’t supposed to work. He just stands there. He doesn’t know how to respond.

Steve nudges a chair towards him. “Pizza?”


	11. Chapter 11

Steve is telling a story and Bucky wants him to stop.

“So there we are in the middle of nowhere, and the Hydra outpost is nowhere to be found, and we’re all pretty close to snapping each other’s heads off. And then Dum Dum gets this look on his face, and we all turn around, and there’s this _cow_ wandering by, calm as can be.” Steve laughs—no, it’s an honest-to-god giggle. “And Bucky, you—”

Bucky gets up abruptly from the couch. They’ll probably be mad at him but he thinks staying will be worse. He’s trying so hard to be the old Bucky. Smile in the right places, loosen his body language, act like a person. He knows this routine; he’s done it so many times for missions, but it’s harder now, with the walls in his head crumbling. And Steve has to keep reminding him what he’s not living up to. Of course Steve’s hoping the stories will jog Bucky’s memory. He’s always so obvious about it.

Bucky walks out of the room, stiff, eyes on the ground. He can hear them talking quietly behind him as he leaves. “Damn it. I thought he was okay.” That’s Steve.

“Yeah, I didn’t catch that one either. I guess he’s getting better at faking it.” The sound of her moving around the room, then the hiss of a bottle opening. “Cheer up, Rogers, it’s a good thing.”

Bucky walks into his bedroom and looks around blindly. Doesn’t bother shutting the door. Suddenly he hates this room. The books and the clothes and the pictures and everything Steve picked so carefully for someone who’s never coming back. Someone who’d grin and take the goddamn comics or candy or whatever else Steve brought him and say, “Aww, Steve, my favorite. You remembered.” The clothes aren’t even his. Not like he can leave the fucking house to pick them for himself. Hydra chose the Winter Soldier’s clothes for him, too. Always someone to dress him up in the right costume.

He goes over to the nightstand and picks up the black and white family photo. Swings around when he hears someone come in behind him. Just Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was upsetting you.”

Bucky stares down at the picture. Resists the urge to throw it and crack the glass. Four strangers, preserved for one split-second out of a past that might as well never have been. That grinning little boy with the crooked front teeth. The girl with her hair in pigtails.

“This is my family.” His voice comes out rough. He points with his right hand, smudging the glass. “This is me. Was.”

“Yeah.”

He shuts his eyes. “Are they all…?”

Steve lets out a breath. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I tracked down Becca’s kids, if you ever want to meet them. But I thought…probably not yet.”

Kids. How many? How old are they now? Grown, with whole lives lived, children of their own. Maybe they could tell him what his sister was like. They know more than he does. Maybe Becca even told them stories about him. Told them something, anything.

His hand opens and the picture hits the carpet. He flinches. (Scared, always so fucking scared, and he doesn’t want Steve to see so it comes out as anger.)

“Everyone knows more about me than I do.” His voice is sharper than he means it to be. “But I’m the one you expect to perform on cue.”

Steve looks lost. “Nobody expects—”

Bucky’s voice rises. “No, but you _want_ it so bad, Jesus, it’s all over your face every time you look at me. You’re a shitty liar, Steve.” 

It’s not what he meant to say, he’s losing control, things just tumbling out of his mouth, and that’s bad, bad, bad. That’s when they come with shock sticks. And he hates the look on Steve’s face; it’s still there, that goddamn hope, maybe even worse now. He’s afraid maybe he’d hurt Steve to make that look go away.

Steve is trying to find the words that will fix everything. “I’m just happy to have you here, Bucky. Whoever you are now, whatever you do. That’s the only thing I care about.”

He makes his face dead, his eyes as blank as he can. “Whatever you say, sir.” Then he turns his back. He can’t stand the look on Steve’s face. Steve could punish him if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. Bucky holds very still and after a minute he hears Steve walking out of the room.

* * *

Natasha finishes retouching her makeup and comes out of the bathroom. She only went in as a pretext to let Steve and Bucky talk without being overheard. It’s cramped sometimes with the three of them in this apartment. Not that she hasn’t made do with much worse, but not having her own room is starting to get to her. She needs her privacy. She’s found a few spots, of course: there’s the balcony, and a place on the roof that’s not hard to climb to. But still.

She should get out more, except that she’s worried she’ll come back to Bucky kneeling over Steve’s body with bloody hands. She knows Bucky is trying his hardest, but that doesn't mean he couldn't seriously hurt Steve. They don’t even know what programming is still buried in his head.

Steve is in an armchair in the living room, head down, shoulders drooping. He rubs his eyes hastily when he hears her come in. Natasha thinks, not for the first time, that he shouldn’t be doing this. He’s got enough shit of his own that he’s not dealing with. And finding Bucky wasn’t exactly the magic cure to his problems.

“So what’d I miss?” She perches lightly on the arm of his chair.

Steve fills her in, weary.

Natasha tilts her head when he’s done, assessing. “So he was mad at you.”

Steve rubs his hands over his face, then drops them helplessly in his lap. “Yeah, but I can’t—I mean, I guess I shouldn’t have told the story, but I can’t help how I _look_ at him.”

“He was mad at you and he wasn’t afraid to show it. At least,” she adds in the interest of accuracy, “not afraid enough that it stopped him.”

“He called me sir again.” Steve looks devastated.

“True, but,” she narrows her eyes thoughtfully, “it sounds like he did it on purpose this time.” Steve’s not following, so she elaborates. “Last time it was a mistake, right? He was thinking of you that way all along, and it just slipped out. But this was intentional. To hurt you. Push you away.”

“And that’s a good thing.” He sighs. “Yeah, okay, I guess it could be. That he’s not just following orders anymore.”

“You have to be a person to be angry. You have to think it’s allowed.”

Steve brightens a little. “He did say my name. I mean, he’s said it before, but not _to_ me like that. So…natural.”

“Almost like a real boy?”

Steve winces.

“I think I made it worse,” he confesses. “Because when he got upset, he was…different. More alive. More like himself. And I…I think he could see it in my face.”

“Probably not the reaction he was hoping for.”

“Yeah, I screwed up.” After a minute, Steve smiles ruefully. “God, I missed him yelling at me, though.”

* * *

Bucky stays in his room for the rest of the evening. Natasha knocks once and gets no answer, so they decide to leave him alone. They make dinner instead. Hopefully Bucky will come out on his own and eat at some point. Natasha cooks hamburgers while Steve makes a salad, because he's decided they should try to eat a vegetable once in a while.

Natasha’s at the stove, and Steve’s at the table tearing up lettuce, so she can’t see his face when he starts talking. It sounds like he’s trying to be casual. “So you and Bucky’ve been talking a lot, huh?”

Natasha matches his tone. “Relatively speaking.”

“About his past?”

“Among other things.” She tips a corner of a burger up with the spatula to see if it’s done.

“And it’s not…upsetting him?”

Natasha thinks about it. “Not really. No more than anything else is. He’s never that stable to begin with.”

Steve sighs heavily. “I don’t know how to do it anymore. How to talk to him. I can’t act like he’s the same guy I knew, and he hates it when I try to be too careful. I guess it’s easier for you. I mean, you knew him after…he fell.”

Poor Steve. He thinks she has some secret in with Bucky, when really she’s just guessing most of the time. “Honestly, Steve, he doesn’t remember a lot about being the Winter Soldier, either. I think he remembers me about as well as he remembers you. And…” She might as well say it. “He trusts you. Everything he remembers about you is good. I don’t know if he’ll ever trust me like that. Not that I deserve it,” she adds, trying to make it a joke.

Steve comes up behind her and almost gets a defensive spatula in the face when she turns. Once she remembers he’s not a threat, he hugs her. She stands there awkwardly, arms at her sides. It’s a good thing she didn’t go for the frying pan.

Steve says, “I guess we’re a couple of lunkheads, standing around being jealous of each other.”

Yeah, could be.” She smiles into his shoulder. “You know that’s not really a word anymore, right?”

Steve laughs. “I’m glad you’re here for him, too,” he says. “I couldn’t do it alone.”

“No problem, Rogers.” She lifts the hand that’s not holding the spatula and presses it to Steve’s back. It’s not so bad.


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky’s been sleeping a lot lately. He worries that it means less time for working on his mission, but Steve says it’s good, that it’s probably helping him heal. He doesn’t particularly like sleeping. There are the dreams, and waking up always makes him think about the cryo chamber--where is he, how many years have passed? But it isn’t cold, and it never hurts, unless he’s banged an arm or leg against something in his sleep. He knocked the whole nightstand over once and he was sure Steve or Natasha would suggest sleeping in restraints after that, but they didn’t, just righted the nightstand and put new varnish on the chipped edge. It’s much more than he deserves.

He’s started working out in his room: pushups, situps, things he can do without equipment. It’s not part of the mission, but there’s no reason not to stay in shape. And he gets restless sometimes. When he's not exhausted. Steve says there’s some exercise equipment in the basement, or they could even go running together, but Bucky doesn’t want to leave the apartment yet.

Doesn’t want to. He’s still not used to that. That it matters.

Of course the truth is more like he can’t do it, just the thought of it makes terror leap up into his throat, and he knows how pathetic that is. They tell him it’s okay, that he has to work from where he is, and if something’s really hard for him then doing it is an achievement, no matter how small it seems. But he can’t help feeling humiliated anyway. He shaves now, at least. He can look in the mirror if he pretends it’s not his own face looking back at him. There’s something off about it, ugly. Something about the eyes. He could probably cut his hair now, too, but he doesn’t. It would feel like a lie.

He still has trouble concentrating long enough to read anything. Comics are easier than books. They start playing video games, once Natasha brings over a console. At first he’s afraid of failing, because he’s never done anything like it before, but they never punish him for doing badly. They play a racing game and Steve doesn’t understand it at all at first, which makes Bucky feel better, and then eventually both of them figure it out and Natasha drops out in exasperation because their reflexes are too good. That’s almost—he likes that. He’s taking it very seriously until he sees Steve smiling and then it makes him smile too.

Things aren’t good, exactly; they’re still a constant struggle, but they’re better. Just an extra inch of space to breathe, and no one hurting him, sometimes he’s not even scared at all, and he’s so pathetically, desperately grateful. But he can’t let himself get used to it. He can feel it building up, day by day; he can’t get away with this forever.

* * *

Steve is playing music from his iPod again. It’s something from when they were younger, he says, Big Band music, and he looks a little bit cautious and a little bit hopeful. Bucky nods. He’s curled up on the couch listening, with an afghan over him because Steve put it there. It’s not the best day but he thinks if he doesn’t have to move he’ll be okay.

It’s just a wash of sound, background noise, doesn’t mean anything to him, and then suddenly it does. He sits up, frowning in concentration. He knows this. He starts humming along, under his breath, without really meaning to. Stops quickly, hoping Steve didn’t notice. But he knows it, he knows the words. He mouths some of the words to himself.

Steve is staring at him, frozen. Like he doesn’t want to break the spell.

“I think I’ve heard this before,” Bucky says.

Steve’s face lights up. “Yeah, you used to love this one.”

Bucky stands up carefully, putting the blanket to one side. “There’s a—a dance that goes with it. Isn’t there?”

“Yeah. Can I…show you? Not if you don’t—” he starts to add, but Bucky interrupts him.

“Please.”

“Okay.” Steve takes a breath and lets it out. “I guess you better lead, that ought to be more familiar.” He lifts his hand and folds his fingers together with Bucky’s, slow and careful. Starts to move them in time with the music, and it works, Bucky’s body still remembers this. Step back, step forward. He closes his eyes and he can see it so vividly, the dance hall, bright lights, being…happy. There’s a girl, red lipstick, hair blonde and perfectly waved, and she’s smiling at him and he’s looking over her shoulder for Steve. The two of them, back in their apartment, a little drunk, stumbling over the steps together and laughing. _C’mon Steve, you gotta try it at least._ He starts stepping on Steve’s toes on purpose and Steve calls him a jerk. His eyes are watering and he blinks rapidly because weakness is abhorrent.

Then Natasha comes in with groceries, nudging the front door closed with her hip, and the other thing hits him. This song turning on a record player, scratchy, in someone’s study; it's dark except for the yellow glow of a desk lamp. The target is there, back to the door, glass of something amber in one hand, and Bucky steps out of the shadows, perfectly silent, and pulls the wire taut around his throat.

He stops dead.

“Bucky?” Steve says.

He can’t have them both, the memories. Steve with his limp gold hair and skinny shoulders and innocent smile, and then this other thing, just one more entry in the catalog of horrors, and how can Steve be smiling at him like that? You’re my friend, he said. Best friend, and Bucky remembers knowing he would die to save Steve, only he tried to kill him, he almost did kill him, and so many others, and maybe it didn’t matter as much before because he couldn’t remember what it _meant,_ but now it hits him full force.

He should leave. Or he should kill himself. He’s allowed now, no one would punish him even if they caught him trying. Steve’s still asking him what’s wrong but he can’t say. His throat’s closed up. He shakes his head, eyes wide. It’s an effort of will to stay standing, to get himself out of the room.

He has plenty of weapons squirreled away in the bedroom. Most of them not even hidden, though Steve and Natasha have convinced him to put some of them away. He throws things out of drawers at random. He should do it quick. Bleed out before they can stop him. But the mess. Maybe put down a towel first.

He has the knife in his hand, and he knows how to cut a throat, he’s kept the blade nice and sharp so it probably won’t even hurt much, and then Steve slams into him from behind. He fights on reflex but Steve wrestles him to the ground, twists the knife out of his hand.

“No,” Steve says. “Bucky, stop it.” He goes limp. No point. He should know better. Maybe they'll punish him now. Maybe this is what it takes to make Steve hurt him. He deserves it.

He closes his eyes. Steve is breathing hard. Bucky doesn’t want to see his face. 

“You should just let me do it,” Bucky says. “I’m a—I almost killed you. How can you even stand to look at me? How can—do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed?”

“Yeah, actually.” Steve’s voice is shaking. “You think you’re the only one who read that file?”

Bucky laughs. There’s a hysterical edge to it. “There’s more. A lot more. Why do you keep me around? It’s sick. I’m just this disgusting remnant of—of him. I’ll never be him.”

Steve loosens his grip a little. Natasha is there. He sees her feet as she come over, her hand as she picks up the knife and puts it out of reach.

“Can I let you up?” Steve says. “Promise you won’t try anything?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, defeated.

Steve sits back and pulls his knees to his chest. Bucky just lies there. He doesn’t see the point of moving.

“You know,” Steve says, “you killed people before, too. Before they brainwashed you. So did I.”

“It’s not the same,” Bucky whispers. “You were soldiers. It was a war.”

“Yeah, and everything we did was noble and we never killed anyone we didn’t have to, right?” He pauses. “You know, Buck, you were already pretty messed up when I got there. You had nightmares. You flipped out a few times. You were maybe more ruthless than you had to be. But you were still Bucky Barnes. Still my best friend. And that's never gonna change.”

“It’s not the same. I cared then. About not—I was still trying to do it right.”

“Yeah, and you kept doing that, up until—Bucky. They tortured and brainwashed you. You didn’t know your own _name_. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Sometimes he almost believes it when Steve or Natasha tells him that but right now he can’t stand to hear it, because he did everything Hydra wanted and he didn’t even feel guilty. He broke, he let them make him into that and he should’ve kept fighting. He was too weak. Too cowardly. Steve would’ve kept fighting.

“Bucky,” Steve says. His voice is softer now. “You said you don’t want to hurt me. If you—if you did this to yourself, it’d hurt me. More than…” He chokes up. “More than anything else you could possibly…”

Bucky stays quiet for a long time. He hears Steve move away, but not too far. He and Natasha will both want to keep an eye on him. He opens his eyes eventually and stares at the ceiling.

“Sorry,” he says very quietly. He doesn’t think they can hear him.

* * *

They do a thorough housecleaning after the incident. They make Bucky give up all his weapons—not permanently, just locked out of reach for now. Natasha doesn’t know if they find everything, but she can tell from the surprise on Bucky’s face that she finds some he thought she didn’t know about. Of course someone creative and determined could still find a way to kill himself, but there’s no point in making it easy.

Bucky doesn’t make any more attempts. He stays in bed for several days, only creeping out when no one else is around. When he finally comes out to face them he keeps his eyes on the floor and apologizes for being so much trouble. She and Steve tell him it’s all right. He keeps apologizing. They keep telling him, but it doesn’t seem to sink in.

Things have been very quiet and very tense. Steve isn’t helping. He’s constantly sad and worried, and of course he has every right to be, but every time his eyes land on Bucky, Natasha can see Bucky shrinking further into himself. Finally she tells Steve to go out. Go meet up with Sam, who just happens to be in town; she certainly didn’t text him or anything. Get a meal. Unwind a little. They’ll be fine without him.

Once he’s gone, she goes to Bucky’s room. The door’s ajar, but she knocks lightly anyway. When there’s no answer, she pushes it open just a crack more. He’s sitting on the bed, back to the door, staring out the window. His hair is limp and greasy. He doesn’t even turn around when she pokes her head in.

“I need your help,” Natasha says. “I’m making a cake, but I can’t do it without someone to help pour and measure.” This is a ridiculous lie. Also possibly not one of her better ideas, but maybe it’ll get him thinking about something else. Something useful. Sometimes it feels good to do something useful.

It’s all right at first. Bucky follows her instructions, cracks eggs, measures cocoa powder, concentrates very hard on not spilling things because his hands are shaky. With the oven preheating, it’s hot in the kitchen, a little stifling. She doesn’t want to patronize him so she says things like “Good,” or “Okay, perfect” in as businesslike a tone as possible and pretends she doesn’t see his shoulders unknotting a millimeter at a time in response. His jaw tenses when the electric mixer goes on so she puts it aside and mixes by hand. 

They’re almost done, and it’s just a little thing—the scrape of the spoon against the bowl, and he flinches and sits down on the floor right where he is, arms covering his head. She stops what she’s doing and kneels next to him.

“Bucky?”

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t. Can’t even—fuck.” He lifts his head with an effort. Eyes glassy, hands shaking—no, just the one hand. Most of him shaking, all the human parts.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He looks close to tears. “You shouldn’t be so nice to me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve anything.”

Natasha shifts so she’s sitting next to him, leaning back against the counter. She tilts her head back, not looking at him. “Do you know how many people I’ve killed?”

He pauses, then shakes his head.

“Neither do I. What does that mean? Am I a monster? Do I not deserve to be treated like a person? To eat a piece of fucking cake once in a while?” She’s aiming for calm, but it gets away from her.

“You’re different,” he mumbles. “You’re not like that anymore.”

She laughs softly. “You think that was easy? I’m not saying I’m all better now, but I started out a hell of a lot worse. Closer to where you are. Which means you can get to where I am. You just…” She sighs. “You fall, and you get up, and you keep doing it over and over again until you’re completely fucking sick of it, but eventually you get somewhere.”

There’s a lot more she wants to say, but she can’t get the words out. You’re trying so hard. You’re being brave. You deserve to be happy. It wasn’t fair, what they did to us. She won’t say I love you, because that would be ridiculous. She barely knows him. Any version of him. I care about you? She settles on, “I’d rather you didn’t sever your carotid artery with a knife, if it’s all the same to you.” 

Bucky laughs once, a strangled sound, and then he just folds over until his head is in her lap and sobs. She puts her hands on his head, his back, tentative, then holds him harder, remembers that she wanted to do this years ago and she couldn’t.

“Shh,” she says. Her fingers are in his hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Shhh.”


	13. Chapter 13

The last time Natasha sees the Winter Soldier—the last time she remembers, before he shoots her in Odessa—she’s older, maybe twenty, and he isn’t. He looks exactly the same. If anything, he looks younger, but maybe that’s just because she feels so much older herself. It’s been a rough few years. Tests, experiments, mission after mission. Punishments to keep her in line. He was right; she shouldn’t have asked questions.

She’s going to be very well-behaved from now on. They’ll be proud of her, she won’t take a single step out of line, and they won’t have to correct her again. She’ll be above emotion, above weakness, utterly unflappable. 

She breaks stride for a split second when she recognizes him in the briefing room. She didn’t expect them to be paired up again. It’s true that technically the Paris mission was a success, but it could have gone more smoothly. Then again, she’s not sure how much of that their handlers know. She’s not sure how much of that _she_ knows. At this point she’s not sure that all her memories of the Soldier are intact. Some things are weirdly fuzzy, floating just out of reach.

This will be a longer-term mission, by their standards. It could be as much as a month. They’ll be going to New York, undercover as husband and wife. Their target is next in line to run a multi-billion dollar company with extensive military contracts; the goal is to turn him, then clear the way for him to take over the company. It’s not much time to establish trust, but if they play it right, that shouldn't be a problem.

Even when they’re heading for the airport, finally alone together (except for the bugs, there are always bugs), they don’t discuss anything but the details of the mission. He was never much of a talker. She doesn’t smile as much as she used to. Not when she’s not playing a part. She asks him how his English is, and there’s something about that question, some reason she shouldn’t be surprised when he answers her without a trace of an accent, but she doesn’t dwell on it. She doesn’t ask if he remembers her.

They take a commercial flight to New York, business class. As soon as they’re in public he slips into character easily, relaxed and charming, throwing an arm around her shoulders. It catches her off-guard. She’s constantly slipping personas on and off, but for some reason she’s never imagined him doing it. But of course, how could he be so good at what he does if he couldn’t blend into a crowd? She has longer hair this time, sleek and dark brown. A long black coat, dark red lipstick. His hair is short now, and he wears sunglasses, a blazer over a white shirt, casual but sharp.

In New York, they check into a hotel together. They’ve agreed that they’re recently married, so she has her arm around his waist at the front desk while he kisses her cheek. She’s never been so close to him, not when they weren’t sparring. His skin is hot and he smells like cologne, something spicy. A good detail for the cover. The little things are always important.

Their hotel room is as big as the gymnasium the Black Widows used to train in. The bed is huge and covered with so many plump white pillows there’s barely room for a person to lie down. There’s a gold-framed mirror, a minibar, a sunken tub in the bathroom. Natasha sweeps for bugs while the Soldier unpacks their gear. It's more habitual paranoia than anything else; it's most likely not worth the trouble to watch them now that they're so far from home

When they change for bed, they don’t bother going into the bathroom. The Red Room's never made much allowance for privacy. Natasha (technically, she’s Amanda right now) has been issued suitably expensive clothes for this assignment; she chooses a silky negligee while the Soldier strips down to boxers and changes his dress shirt for a t-shirt. She surreptitiously examines the muscles of his back. He has fewer scars than she’d expect; the one where the metal arm joins his body is the most obvious. That looks like it hurt, a long time ago.

There’s only the one bed. She carefully doesn’t think about how the room isn’t bugged and there’s an ocean and most of a continent between them and the Red Room, and if anything were to happen, no one would know. But they’d have to report it. Of course she would report it. Anyway, there’s no need to speculate; the bed is large enough that they can sleep without even touching.

He finishes changing and turns around, and she moves toward the bed, giving him a questioning look. He just nods at her and lies down on the floor, curling on his side. For a moment she’s taken aback. She’s been on plenty of missions with plenty of partners and none of them have ever done this. But he’s not your standard agent; he’s probably entitled to a few eccentricities. She shrugs and turns out the lights.

* * *

They make first contact with the target at a charity gala. The Soldier wears black tie, his left hand gloved; she wears a curve-hugging cerulean dress and flirts outrageously. Everything goes smoothly; the target is obviously charmed by them. The Soldier plants a bug on his jacket while Natasha acts as distraction, so they’ll be sure not to miss anything important. Natasha knows it’s all a lie, but she likes this rakish version of the Soldier: the broad smile, the confident way he tilts his head back. The way the two of them work together seamlessly, two consummate professionals. There’s nothing that says she can’t enjoy her work.

He sheds the persona as soon as the door of their hotel room closes behind them. His walk changes from loose and rolling to purposeful and efficient. He strips off his jacket and bow tie without a word, then peels off the single glove while he checks to make sure their bug’s picking up sound properly. Natasha examines herself in the mirror, then starts pulling out bobby pins to let her hair down.

“I have to ask,” she says. “No one ever comments on the glove?”

“Not often,” he says without turning around. “If I act like I’ve got nothing to hide, people are usually too polite to ask.”

“And if they aren't?”

“I tell them it’s covering up a nasty rash.” There’s a hint of dry humor in his voice, and she thinks maybe the evening has relaxed him a little, too, in spite of himself.

She slides down the zipper on her dress, and he averts his eyes as she steps out of it. Such a gentleman; it makes her want to laugh. Almost like he’s never killed a soul.

“Can I ask you something else?” Her heart starts to pound even as she says it; she knows she shouldn’t be doing this.

He grunts in assent.

“What’s your name?” He’s Elliot for the mission, but that’s not what she means. He goes very still, and she makes her tone more playful. “I mean, we’re spending so much time together, it seems silly just to call you Winter Soldier.”

“What else would you call me?” He folds his dirty clothes carefully, no expression in his voice.

“That’s what I’m asking.”

The silence stretches, and she pretends to be unbothered as she slips into her nightgown. “Nothing,” he says finally. “No name.”

It hits her harder than it should. Not _I won’t tell you_ but _I don’t have one._ He’s a legend, one of their best operatives, and he’s not even allowed that?

“Why not? I’m a Black Widow and I still have a name.”

“There’s only one of me.” He’s starting to sound tense now. “It’s not necessary.” He gets up abruptly and goes into the bathroom, and she hears the shower running. She shuts out the lights and gets into bed. After a moment, she takes one of the pillows and sets it on the floor for him. When he comes back out, she evens out her breathing and pretends to be asleep.

* * *

You learn things about a person when you live in close quarters with them for a while. Natasha learns that the Winter Soldier eats an ungodly amount every time they order from room service. That he’s meticulous with his weapons and gear, keeps everything cleaned and stored in its proper place. That he has nightmares—not so many at first, but more as the second week passes. He’s quiet about it, but he moves around in his sleep, the metal arm flailing with deadly force, and maybe that’s why he leaves the bed to her. Occasionally he says something, in English or Russian. What you’d expect. No. Please. The usual. She doesn’t say anything about it—the same courtesy that keeps him from mentioning whatever she says at night.

One morning he starts twitching and mumbling just as she’s sending their latest report by encrypted email. She has more sense than to touch him, so she says his name (if you can call it that) sharply to wake him. “Soldier!”

He snaps awake, sitting bolt upright, then looks around like he can’t remember where he is before focusing on her face.

“Morning, lazybones,” she says, in character.

He squints at her for a long moment. “You,” he says. His brow furrows. “I thought you were younger.”

This is new, but she keeps her face neutral as she shrugs. “I was. Not anymore.” He still seems confused, so she prompts him. “You’re the one who never seems to age, remember?”

He hesitates. “Right.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

His gaze goes distant. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “We should get to work.”

* * *

He doesn’t seem to like New York much. When they’re outside, he looks around too much, distracted or confused, even though they’ve both memorized all the relevant maps. One day they’re tailing a woman who keeps crossing their path, and is starting to look like an undercover SHIELD agent, when he pulls Natasha into the shadow of a doorway.

“Listen,” he says. His fingers dig into her arm. “Amanda.” He corrects himself. “Natalia. If I start acting,” he blinks hard for a second, “…unstable, I need you to report it. They might have to pull me, send in someone else. Promise me you’ll report it, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, though she doesn’t really understand.

But when it happens, she doesn’t report it.


	14. Chapter 14

Tony comes by unannounced, in typical Tony fashion. He rings the buzzer downstairs about five times before Steve can get to it. Bucky jumps a foot the first time and then scowls at his hands. He hasn’t heard the buzzer before; Natasha has her own key, not, of course, that she couldn’t get in without one.

It’s not one of Bucky’s better days. Even if it were, dealing with humans who aren’t Steve or Natasha isn’t an experiment they’ve tried yet. The closest they’ve come is when Steve’s neighbor across the hall knocked to ask if Steve had noticed any water dripping from his ceiling. Bucky hid in his room for several hours afterward. So, unexpected Tony: perfect.

“Hey Cap, it’s me,” says Tony, his voice slightly distorted by the intercom. “You remember, the really charming, attractive guy with the robot suit.”

“Tony,” Steve says. “Hi. This is unexpected, maybe we—”

“Oh, hey, somebody just opened the front door, see you in a minute.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. Natasha looks around and isn’t surprised to see that Bucky has quietly vanished.

There’s a knock on the apartment door a minute later. Steve opens it.

Tony comes in. “Hey Cap, nice to see you, you look great, actually you look like you haven’t slept in a while, you should try one of my energy drinks. Natasha, hi.”

Steve clears his throat. “Tony. We weren’t expecting you…maybe it’d be better if we talk somewhere else.”

Tony looks around. “He’s here, right? Your cyborg assassin friend? Or maybe he went out to do a little murdering? Wait, I’m not actually sure what your policy is on that. It's just you he’s allowed to murder?”

“He’s here, he’s not hurting anyone, and his hearing is every bit as good as mine, Tony.” Steve starts that sentence trying to be patient, but his tone quickly shifts to annoyance. Which is a shame, Natasha thinks, because she’s pretty sure Tony is actually worried about Steve; he’s just expressing it in the worst possible way.

“Thing is—look, I was willing to help out, with the jet and everything, no need to thank me for that.” Tony waves his hands expressively. “And sure, let you get all your ducks in a row or whatever, but it’s been months, Steve. I thought you were bringing him to the tower, I have containment facilities, there’s security. You can’t just keep him in your apartment, he needs treatment, he probably, let’s face it, needs to be locked up for everyone’s safety including his own.”

It turns into an argument pretty quickly. Natasha decides to stay out of it unless they actually come to blows. She’s surprised when Bucky sidles noiselessly back into the room, pressing his back against the wall farthest from everyone else. Maybe he sees Tony as a threat; maybe he’s trying to protect Steve from life-threatening levels of irritation.

Tony finally notices him. “Here he is, the man himself. Hi, I’m Tony, you’ve probably heard of me, please don’t kill me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He looks fairly menacing, thrumming with tension, head down as he stares at Tony, even though Natasha can see it’s taking everything he has not to bolt.

“Thoughts on all this? No?” Tony turns back to Steve, gesturing at Bucky. “See, this is what I’m saying, Steve, this is not your old war buddy, you have no idea what’s left in there.”

Steve starts to answer but breaks off when Bucky slams a fist through the wall next to him. His right hand; he pulls it out again with the knuckles scraped.

“I’m a person,” he says in a low voice. Something that might be fear flashes across his face and he turns and walks out of the room.

There's a brief silence. “Okay, so he talks at least,” Tony says. “Did you teach him that? Did you get to ‘we don’t shoot people’ yet?” Natasha doesn’t stay to listen to the rest. She goes after Bucky.

His door is open, so she knocks lightly on it as she comes in. “Bucky?” He isn’t in the closet. She follows the indrawn breath and finds him in the corner between the bed and the wall, crouching to make himself as small as possible, hands curled protectively over his head. The knuckles of his right hand are oozing blood, though the cuts are already starting to close. She sits down a good five feet away.

“Bucky?” she tries again. Then, much quieter, “James?”

He lifts his head slightly, squeezes his eyes shut, lowers it again. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean it. Swear I didn’t.”

“That you’re a person?” That’s not a thing they took from her; they never needed to grind her down that far. She grew up with them; she never had a self they needed to take away.

He flinches away from the word. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “I’m sorry. I won’t—I didn’t.”

“It’s good that you said it,” she says carefully. Only he doesn’t like her to be too careful, so she makes her voice brisker, more matter-of-fact. “It’s the truth. You’re a person. Always have been, always will be.”

He curls up even tighter, like he’s expecting an explosion. Stays like that for a long moment. When nothing happens he lifts his head cautiously.

She smiles a little, raising her eyebrows at him. You see?

He drops his hands, eyes going distant. After a moment he visibly forces himself to relax. She edges closer to him, pausing to see if it’s okay. They’re shoulder-to-shoulder by the time he regains the self-possession to look embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “They didn’t let me—”

“I get it.”

He lets out a long breath. “I mean, it’s not just—they used to talk about me. Like that. When I was standing there.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Tony was being an asshole. He’s actually a pretty decent human being, but that was definitely him being an asshole.”

Bucky laughs shortly. “Not like I don’t deserve it. I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

“I trust you.” She’s not sure why she says it. She’s not even sure it’s strictly true. She doesn’t trust him not to hurt anyone by accident; there are basically no tasks she trusts him to do reliably without being triggered or otherwise losing control. But his intentions, she trusts those. Maybe she says it because it mattered when Steve said it to her, because it’s one of those things, like _You’re a person,_ that you have to actually hear someone else say to believe. No matter how many times you might say it to yourself.

“Yeah, but you have to say that.”

She puts on a mock-offended look. “I can say whatever the hell I want. Come on. You’d believe Steve if he said it.”

He rubs his face with one hand, smiling a little now. “Yeah, but I also believe Steve is a fucking idiot who let me pound his face in without fighting back.”

“That’s fair.” She looks at his profile and a wave of melancholy hits her. “You still don’t trust me, do you.” They’re two of the last few people left in the world who came from the Red Room, and there’s still this distance between them. Wariness. Or maybe that’s why. Because they know the things they’ve had to do to survive.

He looks guilty. “I don’t know,” he says, and then, “I’m sorry.”

She makes her voice light. “Don’t worry about it. Also fair.”

Steve pokes his head in cautiously from the hallway. “Hey, Tony’s gone. Sorry about that, Bucky. I told him to call next time.” Bucky doesn’t answer right away, and Steve gives Natasha a worried look.

“Is there still ice cream?” Bucky says. His head is down, hair covering his face, but he sounds mostly okay. A good imitation. Even if he can’t quite bring himself to ask for something directly.

Steve brightens. “Yeah, I think we’ve still got three cartons in the freezer.”

So they eat ice cream on the floor in Bucky’s bedroom.

* * *

That night, Natasha’s lying on the couch, reading with a pen-sized flashlight, when Bucky comes into the living room. She shuts the book and sits up, glad for the excuse to stop trying to concentrate.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He never seeks her or Steve out at night, which means, she knows, that he has a lot of nightmares they never hear about.

He fidgets, then forces his hands flat at his sides. “There’s something…I wanted to ask you.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.” Not too soothing, just matter-of-fact.

He keeps his eyes on the floor. “You told me about Paris. And…training before that. But not…here? New York?”

She catches her breath. “You remember that?”

“Some of it.”

She pats the couch cushion next to her. “You can sit, if you want.”

He hesitates, then comes and sits down. After a moment, he pulls some of her blankets over his knees.

“I didn’t tell you,” she starts, “because I wasn’t sure it really happened.” No, that’s not why. She has to force herself to get the next words out. “I’m sorry. I let you down. If I’d just helped you—” She breaks off. “I’m sorry.” She hopes he remembers what she’s talking about, because otherwise she’ll have to explain it to him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “I think that’s usually your line.”

“Funny, I forgot how hard that is to believe when it's coming from someone else.”

“Do you ever believe it?”

She cocks her head, thinking about it. “Occasionally. Mostly I just try to make up for the things I can’t undo.”

He thinks about that, chewing on his lip. He looks so young sometimes. She’s finally caught up to him. Maybe she’s even ahead now. At least in terms of knowing how to live with herself.

“There’s this thing that—you get it,” Bucky says, “but Steve can’t, not really. I mean, he read the file, but he doesn’t know what I really—” He stops, clutching his hands together in his lap. “I’m not a good person.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You are a person, though. Glad we got that straightened out.” She nudges him gently with her shoulder. “And the other part’s debatable.”

His voice gets harsher. “I gave in. I betrayed people, I did terrible things and I didn’t feel anything except satisfaction. But you know. You were there. And you still…” He trails off, shoulders hunched, looking for words. Maybe words he’s allowed to use.

She looks straight at him, but he’s still avoiding her eyes. “Yes, I do.”

He looks up at her, finally. She can tell it’s an effort. “You called me James,” he says softly. “And we…”

There’s a moment where they’re looking at each other and she’s not sure what’s going to happen. Then he reaches out and touches her lips, very lightly, with trembling fingers. She holds her breath. He’s looking at her with something like wonder, like she’s something precious he thought he’d never see again. Natasha’s used that look on marks before, practiced it in the mirror, and she turns her face away, because she’s smarter than that, and she remembers just how well this worked out for them last time.

“You should probably get back to bed,” she says. He nods and gets up without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm not being too mean to Tony here. I love Tony! But he is kind of the obvious person to be tactless and upsetting.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding an implied noncon tag because Natasha makes a brief reference to having sex as part of missions, which I figure she has about as little choice about as anything else she does during this period.

They have the target in their pocket now (a few promises to share weapons tech, a few subtle threats to his family), so now they’re on to step two: eliminating his boss. The man’s name is Davis, and he has exceptionally tight security, so they’re not doing this without a plan. She or the Soldier could easily stroll through the front door of his townhouse and fill everyone full of bullets in about five minutes, but that’s not the mission. It's going to look like an accident, and Davis’s successor may not even connect his sudden good fortune to them. If he’s smart enough to make the connection, he’s smart enough to stay quiet about it.

The Soldier is tailing Davis and his bodyguards today, learning his routine, while Natasha takes advantage of Davis’s absence to get a good look at his security system. She hopes the Soldier is up to the task. He seems more out of it than usual, almost dazed, moving on autopilot. Just before he and Natasha split up, he brushed past some skinny guy with blond hair and turned to look over his shoulder like he’d seen a ghost. She hasn’t forgotten what he said about reporting possible instability to command, but they’re almost done here, and if they can just tie things up quickly, it’ll look good for both of them. Maybe they’ll even get to work together again. Not that she’d let that influence her judgment.

She’s pretty much done assessing things. She swings over a wall, timing it to avoid the security camera, and speaks into her earpiece. 

“You figured out how he takes his lattes yet?”

There’s a gasp in her ear, and she thinks, Shit, unexpected complications, he must be under attack, how long will it take to get to him?

“What?” His voice is shaky. “Who?”

Her stomach drops, but she keeps her voice level. Different kind of complications. “Davis. You still following him?”

“I…” There’s a long pause. “No, ma’am.” Then something that starts, “I was supposed to,” and trails off into inaudibility.

Ma’am? Really not good. “Okay, give me your location.”

Another long pause. “Something’s wrong,” he says, and no shit. “The streets are wrong. I studied all the maps. Did they send us an update?”

“Just stay put and give me your location. Street address, or an intersection. I’ll come to you.”

“There’s supposed to be a bar here.”

She finally pries an address out of him. When she gets there, he’s seated at one of the tables outside a café, rubbing his face with his hands. There’s a green and white umbrella shading the table. Apparently he looks distraught enough or menacing enough or both that no one’s shooed him away yet. He doesn’t look at her until she’s standing right next to him.

“Soldier,” she says, and he blinks at her, sitting up slightly straighter.

“You were…” He touches his earpiece. “That was you.”

“That’s right.” He really has no idea who she is, other than that? Unless he’s faking it, and this is some bizarre test they’re putting her through. Improbable, on balance. She leans close to him, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You know me. I’m your partner. Natalia.” Still no sign of recognition. “We’re on a mission. We’ve been sleeping in the same hotel room for the last three and a half weeks.”

He shakes his head, and then his jaw sets. “You can tell them whatever they gave me this time, I don’t think it’s working so good.”

“Excuse me, sir,” a woman says, and Natasha turns. Waiter, blonde hair and a little green bow tie. “Unless you’re a patron, I’m going to have to ask you to move.”

Natasha gives her a friendly but strained smile. “I’m so sorry, my brother’s a vet, if you could just give us a minute I’ll get him home. I’ll totally pay for a drink or something if you need me to…”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” the waiter says, easing up on the professional formality. “Just don’t take too long, okay?”

Natasha nods her thanks and turns her attention back to the Soldier, who’s just sitting there staring into space. There’s something almost stubborn about it, like he thinks if he ignores her long enough, she’ll go away.

“You remember me,” she whispers urgently. They really don’t need to be drawing attention to themselves this way. She reaches for other things that might get through to him, things from farther back. “My hair used to be red. You helped me train for a little while, when I was younger. We were in Paris together. You told me not to ask questions.”

He looks up at her, a crease between his eyebrows, and then his face smooths out. “Natalia.” He shivers, once. “Shit. I fucked it up. I lost him.”

“It’s okay, we can pick it up again tomorrow. Let’s go back to the hotel.” She reaches for his elbow, urging him to his feet. He walks beside her without hesitation, long strides like he knows exactly where he’s going now.

* * *

Back at the hotel, they go over what she learned about the security system and make a plan for tomorrow which, purely by coincidence of course, doesn’t involve them splitting up at any point. He seems perfectly lucid and on task, suggests improvements to the plan several times, and she thinks maybe it was just a glitch, a one-time thing. Like she has that kind of luck.

He brings it up again later that evening. Natasha’s wasting time reading the latest news updates on her laptop, and he’s sitting in an overstuffed armchair cleaning their weapons. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks.

“I failed today. Jeopardized the mission. Are you going to report it?” He sounds resigned. “Of course you are.”

She hasn’t decided yet, but this pushes her closer to no.

“They’ll have to fix me again,” he says distantly. His hands keep moving; he could probably do this in his sleep.

She looks up from the computer, against her better judgment. “What does that mean? Fix you?”

He frowns. “I don’t know.” The gun trembles in his hands and he looks down at it, then sets it carefully on the desk in front of him. “They do—they did something to me. You know.” He looks almost accusing. “You _know,_ you told me before. Didn’t you?”

“I—” She doesn’t want to answer. “I don’t know.”

He gets up abruptly and takes a few steps toward her. His eyes are wild, his fists clenched. “Don’t lie to me.” 

She thinks about how easily he could kill her. He has the height and weight advantages, and the arm, but she’s faster. She might be able to take him in a fair fight, but then again she might not. What can she tell him? She doesn’t know anything, really. Maybe it’s not even the same Winter Soldier she meets each time; maybe they’re a bunch of clones, and that’s why he never looks any older.

Finally she says, “I think they make you forget things. They’ve—” It’s harder to say than she expects. “They’ve done some of that to me, messed with my memories, but I think they do it more with you. Take more.”

He nods, breathing harshly now. When he speaks, it’s mostly to himself. “I’m unstable. They have to do it, to help me.” He blinks hard. “It hurts, but they have to.”

“Right.” She should be trying to calm him down. Get him to lie down, sedate him, maybe even restrain him, report it and ask for further instructions. “We should go to bed now. You can worry about that later.” She tries to sound authoritative.

“Okay.” He looks lost. He does what she says without another word.

* * *

When the lights are out, she lies in bed and stares up into the dark, thinking. She’s never been more than a ghost, but the Winter Soldier was someone before this, he was a real person. An American—yes, that makes sense, doesn’t it? He lived here, in New York. And they erased him. She didn’t know they could do that. Not and leave something more than a useless shell. Maybe that’s why she’s drawn to him. Because he was someone real once.

She can tell by his breathing that he’s not asleep either. He keeps shifting position on the floor. It can’t be comfortable. 

“I asked you your name once,” she says. “Do you remember that?” It’s easier to talk this way, when she can’t see his face.

The breathing stops for a moment. “No.”

“But you did have one at some point. Didn’t you?”

There’s a long silence. Finally he says, “I don’t know.” His voice shakes on the last word. She hears him get up and turns her head to look for him in the faint city light seeping in from outside. He’s by the window, leaning on a desk with both hands, every line of his body tense.

She sits up and puts her bare feet on the floor. It’s cold. “If you could have one, just for a little while, what would it be?”

“Weapons don’t need names. It’s not allowed.” Something in the wooden desk cracks with a sharp sound. He jerks and lets go of it, taking a step back.

She makes her voice light and teasing. Just pretend it isn’t important; sometimes that works for her. “Come on. It’s just a game. Like a cover for a mission, that’s all. If you were somebody else on this mission.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. She stands up and takes a few steps towards him. He doesn’t back up, but he’s still breathing too fast, eyes darting back and forth, and she wonders if they’ve tried to trap him this way before.

“Just pick one,” she says. “Any name. I won’t tell.”

Maybe it’s enough like an order that he can obey it without thinking. He closes his eyes. “James,” he whispers.

“James,” she repeats, and he shudders all over. “I like it.”

He shakes his head sharply, takes a step back. “James,” he says again, and then, “3-2—” He stops and rubs a hand over his mouth. Shakes his head again.

She doesn’t know what that means. “Come and lie down. There’s plenty of room for both of us; it’s not fair that you don’t even get a bed.”

“It wouldn’t be right,” he says. “You’re just a kid, I mean, I’ve got a sister your—” He breaks off, eyes wide. “Bad,” he says to himself. “Bad, bad, bad.”

She tries to make it a joke. “Getting a little too into character?”

The look he gives her is pure desperation.

She reaches out. He flinches away and she does it again, more slowly, just to take his hand and tug it gently.

“Come on. The floor’s cold.”

He lies down on the farthest edge of the bed, putting as much room between them as possible, and she pulls the blankets over them both. His breathing slows a little, but she knows he’s not asleep. She thinks about it. She could just reach over and…there are all kinds of rationalizations. It’d make their cover more convincing—that one’s bullshit, of course. But if she could just do it once. Get the idea out of her head. He’s probably a terrible lover, anyway. She just wants to know what it’s like when it’s not for a mission.

He’d probably do it just because she ordered him to.

She curls up with her back to him and tries to sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

They finish the mission. The Soldier whose name is James does everything perfectly. Breezes past all the security measures, leaves Davis at the bottom of his own stairs with a broken neck. She makes the call from a burner phone, telling their handler that it’s done, and they’re given a rendezvous point.

Back at the hotel, she packs up their things while he paces the room, full of nervous energy. It’s late, almost midnight. He’s still in his mission gear, all black. He keeps trying to compose his expression to match, the calm and implacable mission face, but it isn’t working. His eyes are too wide.

“Cut it out,” she says. “You’re making me dizzy.”

He stops right where he is and sits down huddled up with his back against the wall, muttering to himself too quietly for her to hear. Sometimes he twitches his head to the side like an involuntary rejection; sometimes he squeezes his eyes shut. If he can just snap out of it, she thinks, fake being all right a little longer…they’re so close.

She comes and crouches down in front of him. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s all over now. We can go back home.”

“No,” he says, looking straight at her. “I’m not going back.”

“What?” It catches her completely off guard. 

He clenches a fist. “I don’t know…I don’t know _anything._ Except.” He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, reciting like he’s gone over it before. “My name is James. I’ve been here before. I think I belong here. And I’m not—it isn’t right. They make me do things and it isn’t right. I’m…I’m supposed to be fighting them. I think.”

This is him, she thinks. The real him, the one they tried to erase. They never got it all, did they?

“James.” She waits till he looks at her again. “You have to go back. They’ll find you wherever you go. You’ll never be able to stop running.”

He laughs bitterly. “It's still better, isn't it?” His voice turns serious again. “Come with me, Natalia. Help me. We could disappear. We’re good at it.”

“I can’t,” she says reflexively. She’s trained herself so carefully not to even think about it. There’s nothing but the Red Room and orders and missions. _Where would you go? We made you. You’re nothing without us._

“It’ll never end,” he says. “If you go back, it’ll just be—this, forever. They’ll hurt you. They’ll take things away. You’ll end up like me.” His eyes are haunted. “You don’t want to end up like me.”

She thinks about it, carefully. Lets herself imagine it. Fake passports, disguises. Pay in cash, always keep moving, use disposable phones. And do what? Be free. Be a real person. What do real people even do? She realizes she’s shivering.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I need to…I need to think about it.”

They miss the rendezvous. Natasha stalls. If they don’t show up on time, they can say there were last-minute complications, things took longer than expected. If they run, really run…that’s different. There’s no going back after that. 

They move to another hotel, a cheaper one, and use different names, but they don’t leave the city. James is twitchy as hell, lost in his head half the time, and she delays, and he doesn’t argue. He really can’t do this without her. Or else he just doesn’t want to leave her behind. Looking back, she thinks this could almost be the worst thing she ever did to him.

* * *

This part might be real, or it might not: a small room, blinds drawn, no curtains. Cigarette burns on the bedspread, the too-strong fake pine scent of cleaner. Both of them in the bed, just sleeping, but there isn’t much room, so they’ve huddled closer together overnight, and she wakes up with one arm thrown over his back. He realizes it about the same time she does, and they jerk apart, her reaching for a knife, him moving reflexively to block a blow.

They stop before they manage to kill each other by accident. Stay still for a minute, composing themselves, remembering where they are. He’s in a t-shirt, hair mussed, sun coming in through the cracks in the blinds behind him, giving him a small dusty halo.

She puts the knife down on the nightstand and draws her knees up to her chest under the sheets.

“James. Don’t you think…isn’t it time to go back?” There’s a pleading note in her voice. She’s never disobeyed so blatantly before. Well. She tried running away once in her teens, but she didn’t even make it out of the building. She needs to fix this before it’s too late.

He avoids her eyes. “I can’t. And you…” He looks at her now. “I won’t stop you, I can’t stop you, but you deserve so much better.”

Her mouth twists wryly. “You must have forgotten who I am again, or you wouldn’t say that.”

“No, I remember.” He sounds so earnest, so human. “Natalia. I do.”

She should look away. One of them should look away.

“You're so beautiful,” he says softly.

It’s awkward and hesitant when they kiss, inching closer together until their mouths meet. Sour morning breath, their tongues clumsy. She puts a hand on the back of his head. He pulls away.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“You really think I’m some innocent little girl?” She smiles, not a pretty smile. “Trust me, I have plenty of experience.”

“I know, that’s why I—”

She cuts that off sharply. He has no right to call her damaged, to try to protect her. “You’re the one who doesn’t even remember who he is.”

“I remember _you,_ ” he says. He struggles for the right words. “If I—they don’t let us choose anything. This is me choosing. I mean, if you—”

“Fine.” She ducks her head, giving him a hint of a smile as she looks up at him. “Me too.”

They kiss again. It goes better this time. His fingers in her hair, the heat of their mouths, her hand sliding up his arm, the metal one, strangely cool.

She doesn’t remember how it ends. She doesn’t think it goes farther than kissing, but she doesn’t remember why. Maybe one of them starts shaking and has to go hide in the bathroom and pretend nothing’s wrong. Maybe that’s her.

This is the one memory she has marked out as most likely to be false. Too much of it is good. It’s implausible.

* * *

Three days after they were supposed to report in, a team comes to retrieve them. There are over a dozen of them, in NYPD uniforms, with stun batons and tranq darts and other, more lethal weaponry to back them up. Natasha freezes. It’s a conditioned response: fight back, always fight back, except when it’s _them._ She learned it the hard way. James throws himself in front of her before a dart can take her down, batting it away with his left arm. After that she tries, but she’s too ambivalent, too scared, and there are so many of them. She takes another dart and everything is hazy after that.

James fights with everything he has and it’s terrifying. He snaps necks and takes headshots and kills half of the team before they take him down, before he’s on the ground and they’re alternately shocking and kicking him to make sure he stays there. They’ve already put heavy-duty manacles on him and she wants to tell him to just stop, hold still so they’ll stop, but he doesn’t. Not until the sedatives take effect and he goes limp. 

They’re flown back to Russia in restraints. She thinks he’s on the same plane somewhere, but she never sees him. When they get back, she's put in a solitary cell for she doesn’t know how long. A few days, maybe a week. A hard little cot, bare lightbulb, bucket in a corner. No human contact except the man who comes to bring her food and water, and he ignores her when she tries to talk to him.

Finally they come to question her about the Soldier. _What did he tell you? What do you know about him? Why didn’t you make the rendezvous? Why didn’t you report that he was behaving erratically?_ She tries to lie, but she doesn't think it convinces them. She didn’t notice any odd behavior until the last day. No, he never said anything about having a name. They changed hotels because they thought someone was onto them. He was probably just confused and thought the retrieval team was an enemy attacking.

When they have all the answers they want, they bring her to see him. It’s in one of the labs, not one she recognizes. He’s sitting in a chair, thick metal bands around his arms and legs, and he’s still struggling, not purposefully but wild and panicked. He’s panting for breath. There’s a smear of blood on the floor, more than could’ve come from any of the small cuts she can see on him, and one of the guards is limping. There are about a dozen guns trained on him, even with the restraints. His face is heavily bruised, and his bare torso. There’s a drip of something going into his arm. They have him hooked up to a monitor that shows just how fast his heart is beating.

“No,” he’s saying, “you can’t, I just got it back.” His eyes widen as he sees her. “Natalia. Natasha, please. Help me, get me out and we can kill them. We can get away.”

She doesn’t answer, but he must see in her face that that’s not what she’s here for. He leans forward, more focused now, straining against the restraints. “Listen to me, you have to get out of here. They’ll do it to you too, you have to—”

One of the doctors tries to force a bite guard into his mouth and he clamps it closed.

“Open your mouth, Soldier.”

He doesn’t. The doctor hits him across the face, rocking his head back, but he still won’t. His eyes are murderous. All of it is so useless, she thinks, rubbing the fresh needle marks on her arm. He’s already lost.

“He’s unstable,” says the man who has a grip on Natasha’s arm. “You did this. You let it happen. Talk to him. Tell him to cooperate, and you won’t be punished any further.”

He pushes her closer to James. She’s standing right in front of him now, trying to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes. She has to. Doesn’t he see that? She has to.

“It’s all right,” she says. She tries to keep her voice steady. “Don’t fight. You’ll feel better afterward.” _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. We can’t stop this; all we can do is make it easier on ourselves._ She can’t say that part.

He just…crumples. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack with defeat. There are tear tracks running down both cheeks. He nods slightly: not _I believe you_ but _I see how it is._

“It’s okay,” she says, “you’ll be okay.” The doctor reaches out with the bite guard again and this time James opens his mouth for it. Clamps his teeth down, eyes on her face.

Then the machine starts up. When he starts screaming they tell her not to look away.

They put him in cryo afterwards. They make her watch that, too. The secret of his apparent immortality (are you happy now, Natalia? You were so curious). He’s dazed and stumbling when they take him out of the chair, eyes dead, feet dragging on the ground as the guards support him. They move him to another room, strip him down, prep him for the procedure. He’s afraid of it, the freezing. She hears him whimper as they put him in the tube. When he freezes in place he’s looking out, one hand lifted to the glass window. She doesn’t think he can see her anymore.

And that’s it. Her last memory of him. They take her away, and she doesn’t see him again. Not until Odessa.


	17. Chapter 17

Natasha’s been brisk with Bucky lately, avoiding prolonged eye contact or emotionally charged conversations. Bucky keeps waiting for the axe to fall. He knows what he did was wrong, touching her like that. Presuming. He can’t tell if she’s angry, if she’s going to tell Steve. 

She might not; she’s lied to protect him before. He knows because one of the doctors told him so. _The Black Widow said you hadn’t been acting abnormally; you were just a little confused. Does that sound right to you? No? Let’s up the dosage._ He thinks he remembers killing that one. Veins bulging in the neck. 

But he knows how this works. If he doesn’t tell Steve now, the consequences will be worse later on. He hopes Natasha doesn’t get blamed, because it was all him. Maybe if he does it right now, if he apologizes, they won’t—no, stupid, they won’t punish him anyway. But it was wrong and he shouldn’t have. As if she would ever want him to touch her.

Steve is patching the hole Bucky made in the drywall, a flat knife in one hand, a bucket of something white on the floor next to him. He turns to Bucky with a smile.

“Hey, how’re you feeling?”

“Fine.” Bucky hunches his shoulders.

“You ever gonna let me get to that closet door in your room?” He says it teasingly, but Bucky drops his eyes to the floor. Maybe if he gives in about that, Steve won’t be as mad.

“You can do it, I don’t care,” he mumbles.

Steve takes a closer look at him. “Buck? What’s the matter?” His voice is gentle and normally Bucky would bristle at it but at least Steve’s not yelling at him yet.

“I, uh—” He makes himself raise his eyes, not quite to Steve’s face, but at least the same general vicinity. “I've gotta talk to you about something.”

“Okay, what is it?” Steve’s face is friendly, open, trying not to look too worried.

“Me and Natasha…I think for a little while we were…” He can’t figure out how to go on.

“You were…?” Steve prompts.

_Mission report, now._ No, Steve doesn't ask for mission reports. “I remember kissing her. When I was…before. And I wanted,” he raises his eyes because that’s defiance of the old order, wanting things, and he might as well go all the way now, “I want to kiss her again.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up to his hairline. It takes him a while to formulate a response. “Okay…and how does she feel about that?”

Bucky swallows the rest of what he was about to say: It’s not her fault, she didn’t do anything, it’s just me. Steve’s supposed to be mad. When he thinks about it he’s not really sure why Steve would be mad, but he knows it. That’s how it works. You can’t just…have things.

“I don’t know.” His voice has gone small again. “I mean, I know I can’t.” 

Steve hunches down a little, trying to meet Bucky’s eyes. “What? Why can’t you?”

Bucky laughs, a snarled thing in his throat that makes Steve twitch. Probably Bucky Barnes never laughed that way when he was a person. No. He is a person. But still. “You really have to ask me that?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning against an undamaged section of wall, “maybe I do.”

Bucky holds his arms out helplessly to the sides. “Because I…” He doesn’t even know how to say it. “I’m fucked up, Steve. Really, really…it’s not like I don’t know. I can’t leave the house, I can’t even be here alone without talking myself into a, a panic attack or something.”

“You’re getting better.” Steve always says that like he actually believes it.

“Yeah, maybe.” If Bucky looks at it objectively, how he was when he first got here, then yeah, some things are better. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. He wants to hit something. He rubs at his face instead. “Eventually you’re gonna get sick of me breaking your shit and pack me off to a hospital. I know it, you know it, there’s no point pretending.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “You really think—” He stops and says in a lighter voice, “You think I give a shit about a few holes in the walls? That’s what spackle is for.”

“Yeah, but you can’t do this forever.”

Steve folds his arms. “Who says I’ll have to?”

“I can’t—” Something rips under his fingers. He looks down. He’s made five rents in the back of an armchair, deep enough that stuffing’s poking out. He was trying not to do that. Now Steve will--what? Nothing. Steve barely looks at the chair. Bucky sighs and crosses the room to sit on the couch. “She deserves better.”

Steve comes and sits next to him. There’s a smudge of white above his left eyebrow. “First of all, you’re one of the best, bravest people I’ve ever known. So I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that.”

“Right,” Bucky says hollowly. Steve’s leaving a few inches between them, because he’s always careful like that. Bucky steels himself and leans sideways so their shoulders are touching. After a minute he’s even able to relax into it.

“And second,” Steve goes on, steadfastly pretending he hasn’t noticed, “I think it’s kind of up to Natasha. You know? She gets to decide what she can handle.” He chuckles suddenly. “I mean, seriously, would you want to be the one telling her she’s not up to it?”

A corner of Bucky’s mouth lifts. He’s slipped a little farther down now and his head is on Steve’s shoulder and he’s holding his breath, waiting for it to not be okay. But it’s nice. “I guess not,” he says.

* * *

Natasha passes Bucky in the hall. He seems preoccupied, and she does her best anonymous-stranger-in-a-crowd impression so she won’t have to meet his eyes. She goes straight to the living room, where Steve is still working on the wall. He’s been at it a long time—he used to be an artist, so it’s no surprise it’s bringing out the perfectionist in him. She perches on one arm of the couch and crosses her arms.

“We need to talk,” she says.

Steve half turns from his work. He looks weirdly cheerful. “Okay, what about?”

Might as well just spit it out. She makes her voice dispassionate. “I almost kissed Bucky. Or he almost kissed me. In the interests of accuracy, I’m not really sure.”

Steve turns back to the wall. “Yeah, he told me.”

“He told you,” she says flatly. This is not what she expected.

“Yeah, just a little while ago. Acted like he was confessing to a crime; I had to reassure him. So are you interested in him?” He’s kind of overdoing the casual tone.

“That’s beside the point,” she says crisply. “It was a mistake and I won’t let it happen again. I think I should move out.”

Steve grimaces. “I just had this conversation. Natasha, why is it a mistake?”

She looks at the fresh rips in the armchair. “He’s in no shape to be in a relationship. And even if he was, I’m the last person he should be with.”

Steve sets his tools down. “Natasha, you’re one of my closest friends. You have more in common with Bucky than practically anyone else alive. Obviously he’s still recovering, and I definitely want you to be careful, but if you’re interested…as far as remembering how to be a person with autonomy, how is this not a good thing for him?”

“I’m one of two people he ever sees. It’s probably more like Stockholm syndrome."

"He's not a prisoner."

"Fine. Imprinting, then. On the first person who’s relatively decent to him.” It’s not about their past. It’s stupid for her to make it into something more than it is.

“Okay,” Steve says. “So give it time, maybe? Go slow. I'm sure once he's seen more people he'll realize he was really scraping the bottom of the barrel with you.”

It stings for the second it takes her to realize that from Steve's perspective this is so obviously untrue that it's funny.

A moment later he looks chagrined. "Sorry, that was a joke."

She makes herself smile. "I know, Rogers." She used to be better at hiding her reactions. Or he used to be worse at reading them. Maybe she's getting soft. She stands up and goes to the closet to grab her jacket. "I'm going out."

"Natasha, wait. Are you--"

"I'm fine, Steve. I'll think about what you said." She lets the door close behind her so she doesn't have to see his face light up.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, everyone! The next few chapters will probably take a little bit longer, too, since I don't have this part completely planned out yet, but don't worry, I'm definitely still working on the story.

Steve startles when he sees Bucky standing in the doorway. Bucky’s been trying to make noise when he moves around the apartment, but sometimes he forgets. He’s been thinking about doing this for a few days now, ever since he overheard Steve and Natasha talking about ‘getting him out of the house.’ He didn’t catch all of the conversation—they’re usually pretty careful about keeping it out of his hearing range when they talk about him. 

At first he thought they were finally sick of his poor functionality and had decided to send him away somewhere. Then he realized Steve probably just meant getting him to go outside for a while. He’s almost sure. Because this is something Steve has brought up, carefully, a few times before. On the better days Bucky actually manages to refuse. On the worse ones freezing in terror seems to get the point across just as well.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He hates being cooped up, and he hates feeling helpless, and he was taking care of himself before they found him. It’s just…safer in here. Predictable. No one to recognize him, no one to see if he falls apart, except people who’ve seen it before, and for some reason they’re still putting up with it. But he knows he has to do this eventually. And it would make Steve happy. And Natasha. Natasha would like it. He waited till she was out shopping, though. In case it went wrong.

“Hey, Bucky.” Steve says. “You doing okay?”

“Fine.” He’s fine, he can do this. Steve’s looking at him in concern, so he probably doesn’t look fine. “I was thinking,” he starts, and his fists clench, “I should maybe…try…” He has to finish the sentence; he’ll never get through it if he has to start over. “Going out.”

Steve’s face lights up. “Yeah, Buck. I bet some fresh air would do you good. I was actually just saying the other day…” He trails off. “You heard that, didn’t you.”

“A little bit,” Bucky says, eyes on the floor. “Sorry.”

Steve looks dismayed. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel pressured. It’s completely up to you, and if you’re not ready, that’s fine.”

“No, I…” He wishes his heart would stop pounding so hard. “I want to. I just—I don’t know if—” He gives up. “It’s stupid, this is stupid. Forget it.”

Steve looks thoughtful. “What if we just went downstairs and sat on the front steps for a while? Probably be good for you to get some sun. You’re kinda looking like a vampire these days.”

Bucky laughs. It’s a tense laugh, but it helps a little. _Okay. Damn it, just say okay._

Steve waits. “So, what do you think?” he says when Bucky doesn’t respond.

Bucky takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I guess. Let’s try it.”

Steve insists on making sure they’re dressed warmly first. It’s not entirely surprising that he has a coat in Bucky’s size, even though Bucky hasn’t once needed it yet. He makes Bucky put on gloves and a hat, too, and offers him a scarf, but Bucky doesn’t want to cover his face, his mouth. He doesn’t actually manage to say that; he just looks at the scarf without taking it, and Steve puts it back without a word.

He hasn’t even been out of the apartment since he got here. At some point the door started to seem like an impenetrable barrier. He stands back as Steve opens it and checks if there’s anyone in the hallway. Bucky’s relieved he didn’t have to ask.

“It’s clear.”

Bucky steps through the door. One down. Okay. Yeah, it’s just a hallway. He remembers this, right? They came in this way. They’re only on the second floor, so it’s just the one staircase to go down. Steve goes first: nobody on the stairs, either.

The first floor is smaller than he remembered and he has a moment of disorientation. Maybe he lost time somewhere and they’ve moved. No, this is right. They would tell him. Probably. He wants to ask, just to make sure, but he’s too embarrassed.

His steps get smaller and slower as they approach the front door. He tries to take deeper breaths but he still can’t get enough air. Steve looks back at him, one hand on the doorknob.

“You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Shut up, Steve, you’re gonna make me lose my nerve. He doesn’t say that. But it’s true; he doesn’t have to. It’s a choice. He’s choosing to do it. Maybe it would be easier if he didn’t have a choice. He shakes his head and comes up next to Steve.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Ready?”

Bucky takes another deep breath and lets it out in something that turns into a nervous laugh. Be Bucky Barnes. Be a person. People do this. “Not gonna be, so let’s just get it over with.”

And then there’s a gust of cold air and they’re blinking in the sunlight. There’s not a lot of snow, but some patches left at the edges of the sidewalk, sparkling white. It’s not so bad, it’s fine, what was he thinking? He was doing this for months before Steve and Natasha found him. Though usually at night or in less populated areas. He scans the passersby for possible threats, concealed weapons. Is that woman with the phone lingering too long? Which windows across the street would give a sniper the best angle? There are a lot of windows. He should relax; he doesn’t have to do that now. Does he? They could still be after him.

Steve nudges his shoulder gently and he comes back to himself. “Nice day, huh?”

Bucky shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “It’s fucking cold.”

They stand there for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. There are too many things to keep track of and he feels exposed, he wants to be back inside. Steve keeps trying to talk to him, distract him, but he can’t focus.

“Is that long enough?” he blurts, interrupting Steve. It comes out plaintive.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, Buck. That was great.” He sounds like he means it. He turns toward the door.

For some reason being let off easy makes him angry. He could do more. Steve doesn’t think he could do more? He knows it’s irrational; it’s not like he wants Steve to say _No, you can’t go inside yet._ But it bothers him anyway.

“Wait. Let’s walk around a little bit,” he says.

“Really? Sure. Great.”

There’s snow on the front steps, and Steve slips a little, catching his balance immediately on the handrail.

“Careful,” Bucky says. He doesn’t know he’s going to say it; it just comes out.

Steve grins at him. “I’m Captain America. You think I’m going to break my head going down some stairs?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.” There’s something familiar about this. He likes it.

They walk for a few blocks. Bucky stays close to Steve’s side. The fresh air feels good, even if it is too cold. A few flakes of snow are drifting down. He can do this. It takes a little while to get to him. The roar of cars driving by too close. A backfiring bus that makes him full-body flinch (though at least he stops himself from grabbing Steve and pulling them to cover). People crowding the sidewalk so it’s hard to get by without touching them, too much color, light and sound and people everywhere, so many possible angles of attack. And they’ll have to walk all the way back again.

He stops walking. Someone makes an annoyed sound behind him and brushes past his side. He feels dizzy.

“Bucky?” Steve says.

He swallows. Tries to make his voice work. “I need—I need to—” He’s past caring what it looks like to anyone else. Steve pulls him to the edge of the sidewalk, in the shadow of a building, and he buries his face in Steve’s coat. He wants to sit down, his legs are shaking, but there’s nowhere to sit. They still have to go all the way back.

Steve holds him firmly. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re okay, just breathe, nobody’s looking.”

He gets it under control eventually. He doesn’t know how long it takes. “Sorry,” he says, lifting his head. There’s snow in his hair, on his eyelashes.

“Don’t be.” Steve hesitates. “You think you can walk now?” 

“Home?” It sounds small and pathetic but he’s run out of front to put up. “We can go home now?”

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

He’s still unsteady but it’s okay, he can walk, Steve gets him home.


	19. Chapter 19

Natasha has decided that they aren’t going to talk about it. 

It’s not as unreasonable as it sounds. She’s run through her options, and they’re limited. She can move out. Except Bucky doesn’t do very well with being left alone yet, so there really needs to be a second person around. Sam would probably be the second choice, but Sam has an apartment and a job in D.C., whereas Natasha…well. She doesn’t stay in any one place too long. It’s much less inconvenient for her.

Option two is convincing Steve and Bucky to move somewhere with a third bedroom, at least temporarily. It’d make it easier for her to maintain some distance, but it’d also mean Bucky would have to adjust to a new place. She’s already brought the idea up casually with him, and he said “Sure,” with the lowered eyes and quiet voice that mean the exact opposite. He could probably handle it, she thinks, even if it scares the hell out of him, but it’d make things harder for a while.

She doesn’t want to make things harder for Bucky. This whole…thing between them is an unnecessary complication, and it’s going to do just that. She should have been more careful, maintained clear boundaries, not let him start relying on her so much. So she’s going to fix it now. Back away, give off only “friend” signals, and Bucky will get over his crush. He’ll thank her when he’s more himself.

* * *

Steve takes his phone away from his ear and tries to catch Bucky’s eye. He’s frowning. Bucky is playing chess with Natasha. He’s doing better at that now; sometimes he actually wins. It’s been a very quiet and serious game. On Bucky’s side, it’s because he’s concentrating hard. On Natasha’s, he doesn’t really know. 

“It’s Tony,” Steve says when Bucky looks up. “He’d like to come over again, says he has a present for you. I’ll tell him it’s not a good time if you want.”

Bucky tenses. “What kind of present?” He doesn’t know why anyone would be bringing him presents. He has some weird half-memories about Tony Stark that make him think it’s particularly unlikely coming from him. Unless it’s the kind of present that explodes.

Steve relays the question to Tony. “Something for your arm,” he reports back. “But you really don’t have to…”

Bucky grits his teeth. “No,” he says. “It’s fine. I can do it.” He’s not actually sure about that, but he’s going to prove it to himself.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Great.”

“Wait.” Bucky hesitates. “Tony’s your friend, right?”

“Yeah, he’s my friend.”

“Do you think he’d put you in danger?” If Tony wants to attack Bucky, Bucky can take care of himself, but he doesn’t want Steve or Natasha getting hurt.

Steve laughs. “On purpose or by accident?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “On purpose.” Steve shouldn’t have friends that are putting him in danger at all. Maybe Tony isn’t such a good friend.

“He wouldn’t.” Natasha gives him a look, and Steve adds sheepishly, “Well, if he did, it’d probably be for a good cause. And I can’t say I haven’t returned the favor.”

Right. Bucky remembers this is not actually abnormal behavior for friends of Steve. But it doesn’t sound like Tony would bring something into Steve’s apartment that would risk killing him. It’ll have to be good enough.

* * *

Tony’s present turns out to be something that looks sort of like a miniature fan. It has a metal handle and bristles and a motor inside with an on/off switch. Bucky can think of ways to use it as a weapon, but it would be difficult.

“So I was thinking,” Tony says, flipping the thing rapidly on and off in what’s probably a nervous gesture, “about your arm, and—really impressive piece of work, by the way, if you ever need an upgrade or repairs I’d love to get a closer look at it—anyway, I was thinking with all those separate plates it must be hard to clean. Stuff gets in the cracks, right?”

Bucky shifts his arm slightly closer to his body. So far Tony hasn’t tried to kill anybody. So far he’s referred to Steve and Bucky as “Popsicle Pals” and avoided all mention of their previous meeting. All Bucky’s said to him is “hello,” which he privately considers an accomplishment even though he knows that’s kind of pathetic.

“So I was just fooling around with some spare parts,” Tony goes on, “and I made this little doohickey I thought might be useful. It’s got a vacuum in it, and these bristles are adjustable so they can fit under the edges…kind of like a keyboard vacuum cleaner, have you seen those? Only way cooler.”

Bucky thinks Tony is lying. The device is sleek and shiny and obviously not cobbled together out of spare parts. And it’s a thing no one but him would really need, which means Tony made it specifically for him. The techs used to clean his arm when they were doing maintenance, but that usually involved disassembling it more than he can really manage with just his right hand. He’s been scrubbing it with a toothbrush in the shower, trying to get between the plates.

“Here, let me show you,” Tony says, and reaches for Bucky’s arm, and Bucky jerks away. He doesn’t mean to. He’s trying to be normal.

“Or you could do it yourself, that works too.” Tony seems completely unfazed. “Here.” He sets it down on the coffee table for Bucky to pick up.

Bucky picks up the device and turns it over, looking at it. It’s very light, and the motor’s quiet. He flips it on and puts it cautiously against his arm. It feels like…not much. A little tickly. He doesn’t think he’d want someone else to do it; it would be too much like maintenance, but if he does it himself, it’s okay. He runs it over the cracks between plates for a few minutes. There’s a little compartment you can open, where everything that’s sucked up is deposited. He opens it and finds a disturbing amount of debris. Mostly dust, some lint, possibly crumbs. Dark brown flaky stuff he’s not going to think too hard about.

He looks up and realizes everyone’s watching him expectantly, and he probably should’ve said something already. “Thanks,” he says. “This is…thanks.”

“Well, you’ve been here for a while now, lots of time for crud to build up…” Tony scratches the back of his head. “Haven’t killed anyone either, so I guess I was wrong about that. Anyway,” he says quickly, raising his voice. “How do we feel about lunch? I could do lunch.”

* * *

They order Thai food. Everyone eats too much. Natasha watches Bucky carefully for signs that it’s getting too overwhelming for him, but he seems to be managing. He doesn’t say a lot, but he smiles a couple of times. Still, she can see the tension go out of him like a string’s been cut when the door closes behind Tony. She gives him a sympathetic grimace. He leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes.

“That was hard,” he says quietly.

“But you did it.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah.” He leans forward to pick up Tony’s present from the coffee table and turns it over in his hands. “This is nice. I don’t really get why he did it, but…yeah.”

“It’s probably the closest you’ll get to an apology.” 

Bucky thinks about that, chewing on his lower lip, then nods. He turns to her. She’s sitting too close to him. She leans away subtly to keep the distance between them the same. Steve isn’t back yet from walking Tony out. He probably got stuck; Tony was kind of on a roll with ideas for new shield-related tech.

Bucky says, “He was right to be worried about you and Steve.”

Natasha shrugs. “Well, he shouldn’t have said it the way he did. Anyway, no, he wasn’t.”

Bucky’s silent for a while, hunching over, hands clasped in his lap. She’s about to get up, maybe go out to the balcony despite the cold, when he says, “Are you mad at me?”

She smiles. “Why would I be mad?” 

“Because of what I…” He finally looks up at her. “I touched your face.” Which is a strangely inadequate way to say it. He drops his eyes again. “I told Steve about that. Sorry if that was…”

“No, it’s fine.” I did too, she could say, but she doesn’t. Habit, probably. Asking for advice could be seen as weakness. Why reveal more than you have to?

Bucky goes on. “Steve said I didn’t do anything wrong, but he wasn’t there, so I thought I ought to ask you.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” She’s all slick surface, calm and reassuring and why would he think they were talking about anything important? God. He deserves better.

His eyes are still glued to the tabletop. “Okay.”

“Bucky, I mean it,” she says, more seriously.

He nods. “So it’s just that you’re…not interested in going down that road?” For a second he sounds almost like a guy who used to talk to girls about this kind of thing a lot. A little charm buried under a hell of a lot of self-effacement. The proportions probably used to be different. 

It’s an opening and she takes it, grabs for the decent thing to do. The safe thing. “No, I’m not,” she says gently.

He sort of deflates, shoulders sinking lower. Or maybe it’s relief. “Okay. I mean, I figured, you know, once I thought about it…why would you want to?” He laughs softly. “I wouldn’t be anywhere near myself, if I had a choice. I mean. I know you’re putting up with all this for Steve’s sake, but that’d be above and beyond.”

She is a terrible, terrible person. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s just, it seemed like…I mean, that night, it seemed like you…wanted to.”

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say, but her mouth is ahead of her. Autopilot: this is how you disengage. “I changed my mind.”

The door creaks as Steve comes back in, and Natasha gratefully takes it as an excuse to slip out to the balcony. It’s snowing, or maybe it’s freezing rain, and she didn’t bring her coat. It’s just warm enough that all the snow will probably thaw and immediately refreeze as ice. She stands watching it come down and refuses to shiver.


	20. Chapter 20

Bucky is staying in his room today. He’s sitting in bed with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, even though it’s not all that cold out. He doesn’t want Natasha to think he’s sulking; he knows he’s not entitled to anything from her. The opposite, more like, after all she’s done for him. He just doesn’t think he can face her right now. She’s still being—he doesn’t know what to call it. Distant. Professional, maybe. Keeping their interactions brief and low-key, flashing a smile he knows isn’t real.

It’s funny, he didn’t realize how good things had gotten until they changed again. He was actually starting to get comfortable. To let himself want things. There was this thing between him and Natasha, the seed of something secret and precious, and he hadn’t felt anything like it in a long, long time, and now it’s gone. Not her fault, he was wrong, back to business as usual. He just has to let it go. But everything feels flattened.

Steve knocks on the door and pokes his head in. “Hey, Bucky?”

Bucky just looks at him miserably.

“You feel like coming out and eating something?”

The thought makes his heartbeat stutter. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “I can’t.”

“Okay. You want me to bring you something, then?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “If you want.”

Steve looks at him for a long moment. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Bucky shakes his head. Although maybe he should tell Steve. Maybe Steve can convince Natasha to change her mind. He has such a high opinion of Bucky for some reason. When Steve was talking it almost seemed like it could work. Like Natasha wouldn’t have to be crazy to care about him.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Well, you know you can always talk to me. Or Natasha.”

Bucky clamps his mouth shut and nods.

* * *

He tries to read a book but he can’t concentrate. He picks at the food Steve brings him but everything tastes wrong. After he gives up on that he just lies there for a while and stares at the wall, but he can’t get his mind to shut down the way it used to (perched on a rooftop, finger hovering by the trigger of a rifle). He needs a distraction.

He should just get up. Go out there, talk to her. He’ll have to do it eventually. Might as well get it over with. Get up, he tells himself. He’s a fucking supersoldier. There was a mission in…somewhere in China, where he walked a mile and a half on a broken leg. This is nothing. Should be nothing.

The door’s still open a crack, the way Steve left it. He hears Natasha coming down the hall, then her knock on the door. Briefly considers the closet. Or under the bed. Doesn’t move.

“Bucky?” She nudges the door open, just enough to look through the space.

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“I’m making some cookies, if you want to help. Double chocolate chip.” She doesn’t say she needs him to, this time. He should’ve known that wasn’t true.

He hesitates. She adds, “Steve’s helping too.”

That makes it a little easier. Steve and Natasha can just talk to each other and Bucky can be quiet. He likes it when they do that, when he doesn’t feel like he has to say anything.

“Okay.” He starts to get up.

“You don’t have to." She sounds nervous.

“I know,” he says too quickly.

In the kitchen they’ve already got all the ingredients set out, flour and cocoa, butter and eggs. Steve is eating chocolate chips from the bag.

He smiles at Bucky. “Hey, maybe we should double the recipe.”

“Again?” Natasha says dryly. In the harsher light of the kitchen Bucky can see that there’s concealer under her eyes, the same color as her skin but a slightly different texture, covering dark circles. Because of their conversation yesterday? He wonders suddenly if she’s afraid of him. Does she think he might react violently to rejection? He wants to tell her that he’d never hurt her, but he doesn’t know how to say it, and he never feels totally in control of himself anyway so maybe he’s wrong.

Steve hands him a spoon. It clinks against his hand. “Here, you can stir.”

“Okay.” There’s still a little thrill of relief that goes through him, sometimes, when someone tells him what to do.

They make a lot of cookies. Steve and Natasha take turns adding ingredients while Bucky stirs. Natasha deftly shapes the dough into balls and puts them on the cookie sheet. She licks the dough from her fingers afterwards, preoccupied, smiling at something Steve says. Bucky watches her, wondering if it’s a message, or a test. Does she really do anything without thinking about it? She catches his eye and he looks away quickly. She has her hair in braids. She’s never worn it that way before. Only in that one memory.

“Set the timer for ten minutes,” Steve says, and Natasha says, “Yes, sir, Captain, sir” in an unnaturally deep voice. Steve dabs cookie dough on her nose and she retaliates by putting a glob on his ear. Bucky watches them and finds himself trying not to smile. Maybe that’s the point of this, the secret message. That they can still have fun, relax around each other. As friends.

She circles the table and ducks as Steve throws more dough at her. Some of it brushes Bucky in passing, but he doesn’t really care. After a little more back-and-forthing, she ends up next to Bucky again and holds out a hand to stop Steve.

“Okay, truce,” she says, laughing. “Captain America’s wasting food! You’re a bad example to children everywhere.”

Steve looks not even a little bit guilty. “I have the right to defend myself,” he says in his Captain America voice.

“You started it.” She looks to Bucky for confirmation. “Oh. You have some in your hair. Here, can I—?

She reaches out a careful hand and even though he’s been warned he grabs her wrist before he can stop himself. She looks up at him. There’s something in her face he can’t identify—fear? It doesn’t look like fear.

“Sorry,” he says, letting her go, and tries to back up, but he’s already against the edge of the counter. “Didn’t mean to…”

She blinks and shakes her head slightly. “You’re fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

It’s hard to breathe. “You’ve got to tell me if I…if something’s not okay. Now. Because I might not…I might not know.”

Steve’s watching them, frowning. Natasha gives Bucky a very small smile. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I will.”

* * *

Bucky can’t sleep that night. Around 2 a.m. he goes out to the living room and finds Natasha. She’s awake, curled up on the couch in a nest of blankets, trying to read with a penlight. She looks cold and tired. He stands just out of sight for a moment, watching her, wondering if he should just go back to bed. Finally he steps through the doorway and she looks up at him. He rubs his palms against the legs of his pajama pants.

“Everything okay?” she asks, tilting her head.

He nods. “I need to…can I ask you something?”

She closes her book. “Go ahead.”

“Can you tell me why?” He hopes she knows what he’s talking about, because he’s not sure he can say more than that.

Her mouth curls in a humorless smile. “You ought to know that’s not a question you should ever ask.”

“You think you’re gonna hurt my feelings?” He’s not exactly sure where the anger comes from, but it’s better than fear. It’s funny, in a way, how she and Steve act like he’s so delicate. Like he hasn’t been through worse than they could possibly do to him.

Her eyes widen slightly. She’s silent for a moment. “I just don’t think you’re ready to be in a relationship.”

“So that’s up to you now.” He doesn’t even drop his eyes after he says it.

She keeps her voice level. “It’s up to me if _I_ want to get involved with you.”

“And you don’t. For my own good. That’s real generous of you.”

“No, Bucky, it’s not—" She rubs her forehead with one hand. "You haven’t figured out who you are yet. It wouldn’t be fair to you.” Her voice is small, like she hasn’t entirely convinced herself.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to keep his feelings under control. “If you’re not interested,” he bites out, “fine. But if you think I can’t handle it—” Maybe he can’t. Look how well he’s handling this. He hates the idea that she might be right. He’s taken a few steps forward into the middle of the room, his hands clenched. “Tell me you don’t like me. Tell me I disgust you. Tell me you’re afraid I’ll fucking snap and strangle you.”

She stands up, dropping her blankets on the floor. “I’m not. How could you think that?” She sounds angry now.

“Then why?”

“It’s none of your—”

“ _Why,_ Natasha?”

“Because I’ll hurt you.” It bursts out of her, startling them both. Neither of them says anything for a moment. Natasha adds, stiffly, “That’s what I do. The only thing I’m good at.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say.

“I think I should leave,” she says.

He finally finds his voice. “You—you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.” She turns with glittering eyes and walks very carefully out of the room.


	21. Chapter 21

Natasha’s gone when Bucky wakes up the next day. It’s almost noon and his eyes are bleary, his sheets soaked in sweat. Her toothbrush is gone from the bathroom, and her shampoo, the one that smells like rosemary and mint.

He goes out to the kitchen and finds Steve slumped at the table with a newspaper. Natasha says he’s the last person in New York who still reads the paper. He wonders if she left in the middle of the night. Did Steve wake up and find her gone with no explanation?

Steve looks up and gives him a cautious smile. “Hey.”

“She’s gone?” he asks.

Steve nods. “Around five this morning.” Right when Steve usually gets up, because Steve is a masochist.

Bucky pulls out a chair and sits, hunching his shoulders. “She tell you why?”

Steve hesitates. “I got the basic idea.”

He should let it go but he asks anyway. “What did she say exactly?”

Steve looks uncomfortable. “She said she didn’t think that, uh…you and her being together was a good idea, and she thought she was making things worse by staying. That’s it. Verbatim.”

Bucky sighs and nods. “Okay.”

“Want me to make you some coffee? Eggs?”

“I’m fine.” He stares at the wooden tabletop for about thirty seconds, then changes his mind and gets up to start brewing a pot of coffee.

“I hope you know,” Steve says when Bucky sits down again, “she didn’t leave because you did anything wrong. She just thought it was better for both of you.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Of course he did something wrong. He should never have asked her about it in the first place. Like she wasn’t already giving him enough. No wonder she left. On second thought he’s not sure that’s right. Because she wasn’t angry, was she? 

“She was scared,” he says, tracing the patterns in the wood with one finger.

Steve looks indignant. “Natasha? Of you?” 

Bucky shakes his head. “Not of me. Of...messing me up worse, I guess.”

"She really thinks that would happen," Steve says tiredly. He shakes his head. "Maybe she just needs some time to herself."

Bucky shrugs.

Steve gets up. “Let me make you something, you didn’t eat much dinner last night.”

Stop hovering, Steve. “If you want.” He doesn’t want people hovering. He doesn’t want to _need_ it. If he could just be okay with Natasha leaving…but he isn’t. He feels like he’s hanging on by his fingertips and there’s nothing but void below him. It’s not fair, when he was doing so much better before. (Fair. That’s hilarious.) He just wants to be okay already. Maybe it would be better if he could be the Soldier again. He’s trying so hard to be a person like they want and it just makes things worse. At least when he was the Soldier he was useful.

“Eggs okay?” Steve says from the fridge.

Bucky shrugs again, then realizes Steve can’t see him and makes himself speak up. “Sure.” 

“You know, when you think about it, this could be a good thing. We can spend some time together, just the two of us. Just for now, doesn’t have to be permanent.”

Bucky doesn’t want to talk about Natasha anymore but it’s hard to say it. Stop. Stop is hard. They've talked about this, how he needs to say when something upsets him because they can't always tell, but right now it's too much. He’s just going to talk as little as possible and wait for Steve to give up.

After a little while Steve sets an omelet down in front of him. Steve’s already eaten, but he brings over coffee for both of them. Bucky picks up his fork and cuts off a small piece of the omelet. It doesn’t taste like anything. Steve’s picked up the paper again and is pretending not to watch him. Making sure he eats? He’s not going to starve to death.

Bucky eats in silence for a while. He’s made it halfway through the omelet when Steve clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry, Buck. I know I encouraged you, and—I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve noticed it wasn’t working out.” 

Bucky slams his coffee mug down against the table. It cracks down the middle and coffee goes everywhere. Some of it spatters his face. It’s not hot enough to burn, not that it matters.

“It’s not about you,” he snaps. “Not everything is about you and your massive guilt complex.” 

Steve’s staring at him. Bucky covers his mouth with both hands. “Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry.”

Steve looks pained for a second before he composes himself. Not angry, though. What’s wrong with him? “It’s okay,” he says. “I get it. You have a right to be upset.”

No, he doesn’t. Steve deserves better. Bucky’s going to be terrible to him and then Steve will get fed up and leave too.

Steve gets out a damp rag and a broom and dustpan to clean up the mess. 

“I’ll do it,” Bucky says, getting up.

Steve waves him off. “It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

“Let me do it, okay? Please.” He probably sounds a little more intense about it than he needs to.

“Okay,” Steve says. “All yours.”

* * *

Natasha gets off a train in D.C. She did her planning on the fly, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a well thought-out decision. She needs to do something that will distract her from thinking about James—Bucky—and the obvious thing is work. The obvious thing is always work, because there are always people who need help and people who need to be stopped, even when there isn’t some world-shaking crisis going on.

D.C. is a good place to start looking for some of the Hydra agents who might have made it out of SHIELD alive. There are some leads she couldn’t follow right after the helicarriers went down, things that weren't a priority then, but could prove fruitful now that she has time to give them another look. She knows there are still Hydra splinter groups out there, trying their best to rebuild, and it makes her sick with rage. She needs to destroy them. Destroy something, anyway. Funny, isn't it. You’d think she’d done enough of that lately.

Her coming to D.C. has nothing to do with the fact that Sam still lives here and that he talks to Steve regularly. Still, it would be rude not to drop in and see him while she’s in town. 

She scouts out his apartment, then comes in through the bedroom window. She can hear him moving around in the kitchen, clattering dishes together; the noise covers her entrance nicely. When he comes into the living room and finds her sitting calmly on his couch, legs crossed, he drops a plate on the carpet. He’s got a dish towel in the other hand.

He picks up the plate and straightens. “Jesus Christ, Natasha. You scared the shit out of me.”

She gives him a playful smile. She’s fine, see? She’ll be fine. “You should really upgrade your security. I’m just doing you a favor by reminding you.”

“And I’m so grateful for that.” He sets the plate down and comes over to her. “How’s Brooklyn been treating you?”

Natasha keeps the smile in place. “I’ve moved on, actually. It was getting a little cramped with the three of us.”

“Huh,” Sam says, looking at her thoughtfully.

She wonders how much he’s already heard from Steve. Maybe it’s better to redirect the conversation. “How are _you_ doing?” His grandmother passed away a month ago, after all. She sent a card and flowers. Didn’t even think about that, did she? Just dropped in on him with no warning, like he doesn’t have problems of his own to deal with. 

“I’m okay,” Sam says, and smiles. Not quite as broad as usual. “I mean, I miss her. But she had a good life. I’ve got some boxes of her old stuff here, haven’t figured out what to do with it all yet.”

Natasha stands up. “I don’t have to stay, if you have things to do. I was just in the area, so I thought I’d swing by.” 

“Are you kidding? No way are you leaving after five minutes. I’ve got a spare bedroom—stay for a few days, at least. Unless you need to run off and save the world again, of course.”

“Not this time.” She hesitates, then sits down again. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” He sits next to her. “So what really happened at Steve’s place?”

“It doesn’t matter. I made a mistake, that’s all.” She tries to sound nonchalant, but her voice is a little unsteady. “Don’t look so surprised, it does happen occasionally.”

“What kind of mistake?” He looks so concerned. It just makes her feel worse. Sam’s always so willing to put his own issues aside for other people.

“It’s nothing.” She struggles with herself for a moment, then gives in and says the rest of it. “I never should have been there in the first place. I let things get out of control.”

Sam smiles. “Natasha, I don’t know if you realize this, but I’ve had to listen to months of Steve gushing about how grateful he was to have you there.” He imitates Steve’s voice. “‘Natasha’s the greatest, I don’t know what I’d do without her.’”

“Right.” Natasha realizes to her horror that she’s actually on the verge of tears.

Sam notices and backtracks. “I’m sure you had a good reason to leave, though.” He hesitates. “Want to tell me about it?”

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Bucky and I…have some history. I thought I could…handle it. That we could…but I’m too fucked up, and he’s obviously too fucked up. I should’ve known better than to…” She stops. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be putting this on you. You’ve got your own stuff to deal with.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. Honestly, it’s kind of nice to have a distraction.”

Natasha gets herself back under control. “Can you do me a favor? If you happen to talk to Steve, can you tell me what he says?”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “You can’t talk to him yourself?”

“I can, but there are things he probably wouldn't tell me.”

“It’s kind of an invasion of privacy, you know.”

She wipes her eyes. “You don’t have to. I left some bugs in the house; they’re just not going to pick up everything.”

“Natasha.”

“I just want to make sure he’s—they’re okay." She makes her eyes as big and sad as possible. "Don’t tell Steve. Please.”

Sam grimaces like he knows exactly what she's doing, but it's working anyway. “Okay, I won’t tell him. Just this once.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!

Bucky is standing by the window in his room. He’s opened it to let in some fresh air. He didn’t think of that for a long time, that it opened. It’s nice outside, finally getting warm, and he can see a tree with buds that might turn into flowers. He’s trying to enjoy the view and ignore the part of his brain telling him a window is not a safe place to stand.

Steve comes down the hall and stops in the doorway. “Hey, Bucky. You doing okay?”

“Fine.” He says it automatically, distracted. There’s a bird out there somewhere, flitting between one tree and another, and he’s trying to get a better look so he can figure out what kind it is. There’s a memory he can’t quite get to. An old one, he thinks. When he and Steve were kids? He’s still missing a lot of that time, or maybe he would have forgotten it by now anyway. It’s hard to believe it ever really happened. They were talking about a bird. Steve was. Or Steve was looking at it. He bites his lip, frustrated. He knows it’s there but he can’t bring it up to the surface.

“If you’re up to it,” Steve starts, “I thought maybe today we could…” Bucky closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his face and Steve trails off. “Not that kind of fine?”

Bucky turns around. He doesn’t want to say it but he does anyway, because Steve likes it when he’s honest. “Yeah, not really.”

Steve leans against the wall. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky shakes his head tiredly. “Same stuff as usual. It’s just, sometimes it’s better and sometimes it’s worse.”

Steve nods. “Anything I can do?” When Bucky doesn’t answer, he smiles crookedly. “You want me to stop pestering you?”

“I don’t know.” Steve has probably figured out by now that _I don’t know_ really means _please don’t make me decide things right now._ “No,” he adds quickly, before Steve can leave. “What were you gonna ask me about?”

Steve scratches his head. “It’s not important. I was just wondering if you wanted to check out the gym equipment in the basement. Maybe expand your exercise routine a little. I know it makes me feel better sometimes just to do something physical.”

Bucky thinks about it. He doesn’t have to. But it probably would help. He’s been feeling restless a lot lately. The apartment’s too small. He glances at the untidy pile of loose paper on the floor next to the bed. “Maybe later.”

“Okay, no problem.” Steve follows his gaze. “You know, Buck, there’s a trash can literally five feet away.”

Bucky starts to apologize before it registers that Steve’s smiling. He's usually careful to put things back where they belong. Maybe the old Bucky didn't do that?

Steve crosses to the pile of paper and kneels down. “Oh,” he says softly, just as Bucky says, “Wait.”

Bucky goes over to see which sheet he’s holding. He can see his own handwriting scrawling to the edge of a napkin: _think it was Morita…used to tell a story about…_ and then farther down, _was that my mom?_

“They’re not trash,” he says, suddenly afraid Steve will throw them away.

“Yeah, I see that now.”

“I’ve been trying to…put things back together.” Things he knows, things he remembers. Things he _was._ It’s a mess of stitched together scraps, full of gaps and uncertainties. But he’s starting to see the rough shape of it. Sometimes it’s just a few words or an image that he knows is important but doesn’t know why. Sometimes one memory cascades and brings back more and more and he’s left scribbling furiously for hours, terrified he’ll forget it all again before he has it down. He’s been using whatever scraps of paper he could find: old receipts, the backs of junk mail.

Steve sounds a little choked up, though he’s trying to cover it. “You know, you could use a notebook. I can pick one up for you, if you c—don’t feel like getting it yourself.”

He didn’t think of that. Why not? Stupid. _Secure additional resources if necessary._

“Yeah, that would be good. Thanks.” He looks at the floor. After a second, he nudges the papers into a slightly neater pile with his toe. He doesn’t really want Steve to read them. He's trying to figure out how to say so when Steve picks up another sheet. _She was trying to impress me. She didn’t need to try so hard._ That’s a recent one, and Bucky knows what the rest of it says. _She was obviously the best of the group. They said not to spend so much time on her. The others needed it more. Once I told her she had a natural talent. She wasn’t more than thirteen and I told her she had a talent for killing._

He snatches it away before Steve can get that far.

“Sorry,” Steve says. Then, tentatively. “Natasha, huh?”

Bucky avoids his eyes. “Yeah.”

Steve hesitates. “It must be weird, remembering her so much younger.”

“Yeah.” He wrestles with himself, then sits down on the floor next to Steve. Why not. “It’s all spread out, different years. Like she was always there. I mean, I know she mostly wasn’t, but it—feels that way.” Some of what he’s written isn’t even from the past. Some of it’s stuff he doesn’t have a good reason to be afraid of forgetting. The slightly hoarse quality of her laugh. An assortment of different smiles, sardonic to genuine. How her hair curls when it rains.

“You’ll see her again,” Steve says.

Bucky presses his lips together. “Maybe.” They sit there in silence for a few minutes. Then Bucky says, “I don’t know what to do now.” 

“About what? Natasha?”

“I just…I miss her.”

“I know.” Steve puts a careful hand on his arm. “I guess you just have to…keep going. One foot in front of the other, and eventually things will start to make sense.”

Bucky snorts. “Easier said than done.”

Steve smiles ruefully. “Yeah, I know.” It occurs to Bucky that Steve knows something about losing people and having to keep going. He might even know more than Bucky does. He actually remembers all the people he’s lost.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at the motivational speeches.”

Steve laughs and shakes his head. “Believe me, I wish I had an easy answer.” He frowns, thoughtful. “Maybe think about what you want. What makes you happy?”

Natasha. You. How much sappier can you get? Sleeping without nightmares. A day where he doesn’t panic. No one hurting him. “Pizza,” he says.

“Well, there you have it,” Steve says, grinning. “Maybe you should open a pizza parlor.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Seriously, though, if you’re looking for something to do, why don’t you check out the basement? Or…"

"What?"

"You could come running with me. Just once, see if you like it. It always makes me feel better."

Bucky hesitates, chewing on his lip.

“You don’t have to.”

“I _know,_ ” Bucky says, and it comes out a little sharp even though he appreciates it. He softens it with a smile. (Assets don’t smile. Only when they make a really difficult shot and then only if there’s no one left alive to see.) “Fine,” he says. “Just once.”

* * *

Steve thoughtfully waits till 8:30 the next morning to switch Bucky’s light on, which by Steve’s standards might as well be noon. It means Bucky gets about four hours of sleep the night before, but he doesn’t mention that when he’s grumbling about what a monster Steve is and wondering out loud how he ever got talked into this. He doesn’t want Steve to feel guilty; he just wants to complain. It helps distract him from how nervous he is. He’s been out of the house a few times by now, but it still isn’t easy for him.

He’s wearing a sweatshirt and leather gloves to hide the arm, plus sunglasses and a baseball cap to hide his face. Steve thinks he’ll be too hot, but Bucky insists. He can handle a little discomfort. Better that than someone recognizing him as the Winter Soldier. Steve says people don’t bother him much because Captain America running around Prospect Park isn’t a novelty anymore, but that doesn’t mean no one will notice if he suddenly has company. Especially if the two of them are out for a long time. 

Bucky can’t help being on edge, but once they start moving, it’s manageable. It turns out running is a thing he can do. Running is shutting off everything unnecessary and just being a body that performs a function well. Wind in his ears, feet pounding, breath in and out. He didn’t realize how much he missed this—using his body, being good at something. When he was the Soldier that was all he had.

Afterwards, they sit on the grass. He takes off the sunglasses and the hat and lies flat on his back, looking at the sky. There’s so much blue. He’ll need to go home soon; he’s reaching the limits of what he can handle, but for now, this is nice.

“Not bad,” Steve says, passing him a water bottle. “I mean, considering how out of shape you are.” He’s practically beaming.

Bucky laughs. “I was going easy on you, couldn’t you tell?” He remembers about the bird now. Steve was sitting on his front steps drawing it, or trying to, but it wouldn’t stay in one place long enough. It was white and grey; Bucky can picture it perfectly, but he still doesn’t know what kind it was. That was never a skill they thought he needed. Steve asked him what it was called, and Bucky said it was a white-throated chatterer. He used to be good at that, saying things with enough confidence that they sounded true. It took Steve a while to catch on. He wrote it on his picture, right above the signature he was practicing for when he was a famous artist.

Someone heads their way and Bucky tenses and sits up. It’s a girl, maybe seven or eight, her hair in lots of braids with barrettes at the ends. Probably not a threat. He takes his hand off the knife hidden at his waistband. She ignores him and comes right up to Steve.

“Are you Captain America?”

Steve smiles easily at her. “That’s right.”

“Where’s your shield?”

“At home.”

She looks at Bucky suspiciously. “Who’s he?” 

“A friend of mine,” Steve says.

Bucky tries to keep his expression neutral. He doesn't want to scare her but he doesn't remember how to interact with kids when they're more than acceptable collateral damage.

The girl leans in to get a closer look at him. He holds still with an effort. “You look kind of like Bucky Barnes,” she says. She pinches her thumb and forefinger together with a sliver of space in between them. “A _little_ bit like him. Only he was more handsome.” She turns back to Steve, who’s pretending to cough. “Do you miss him?”

Steve smiles at Bucky. “Not as much as I used to.”


	23. Chapter 23

Natasha is keeping herself busy. So far, she’s unearthed an empty bank vault with scratches on the floor implying a lot of heavy equipment has recently been moved. She thinks she can see where the chair stood. And something that was either a cryofreeze chamber or a vending machine. All that’s left are some disconnected tubes and wires and a few shards of broken glass. She wonders if Bucky came here, too, and if the place was already empty when he found it. There’s nothing to tear apart, so she grinds the glass under her heel and moves on. 

She traces the missing tech to a garage belonging to a former SHIELD scientist named Ray Smith. No one she’s ever met personally, which is good, because otherwise she would be tempted to kill him on sight. There’s a padlock on the garage door and a sign for a home security system in the yard, though further investigation reveals he doesn’t actually have one. Fallen on hard times without Hydra, maybe.

She breaks into the garage while he’s at work and finds what she’s expecting. The chair is there, between a lawnmower and a charcoal grill; it’s been partially disassembled, but none of the components look damaged. The cryofreeze chamber looms in a corner, larger than she remembers it. It’s drained now, only air inside. There’s some other equipment she doesn’t recognize, scattered on the floor or laid out on a folding table. Gleaming metal, clear plastic, things with screens and wires and clamps. Electrodes. A row of long syringes and vials. The shape of them catches at her memory and for a second she feels straps around her wrists, a needle going into her neck while she struggles.

She leaves for a while, buys herself lunch, runs some errands. Not because she’s unsettled. This was always the plan. She comes back later, just before Smith is due to get home from work. When his car pulls into the garage, she’s standing hidden in the shadows. She steps out just as he's pressing the button on his keychain fob to lock the doors.

“Hello,” she says. His eyes widen and he scrambles for something in his briefcase. She kicks his legs out from under him and retrieves the briefcase. There’s a small stun gun inside; she puts it in her back pocket.

“Interesting collection you’ve got here.”

He blinks up at her, his mouth open. He’s not a physically imposing man—tall but thin, with a face you wouldn’t notice in a crowd. His hair is a sun-bleached blond, and he’s very tan.

“Please,” he says, scooting backward, “don’t hurt me, I’ll do anything you...”

She cuts him off. “You know who I am?”

He nods. “Bl—Black Widow.”

“That’s right.” She crouches next to him, pulling out the stun gun. Sometimes it’s best to let her image do the work for her. She tilts her head at him and says, conversationally, “Where’d you get all these toys, Ray?”

“Look, I’m not Hydra, I swear! I’m just taking advantage of an opportunity. I’m…I’m a businessman.”

She nods. “That’s why there’s surveillance footage of you talking to two known Hydra agents and a black market arms dealer. I know you stole the tech, Ray, and I know you’re planning to sell it.”

He holds up his hands defensively, talking fast. “Do you have any idea how much this stuff is worth? The cryofreeze chamber, it’s not adapted for use on unenhanced humans yet, but give it a few years, and it could be marketed to the masses. Completely revolutionary. And the mind-wipe technology has been ahead of modern science since the _fifties._ It’s absolutely cutting-edge. The specificity, the level of control…”

Natasha gives him a level stare, her jaw tight. She doesn’t think they ever used the chair on her, but—well. Good joke. How would she know for sure? In a way it doesn’t even matter. They did enough. 

Smith seems to gather courage from her silence. “You know, I know all about you. I read your file when you dumped it online. We both know you’re not coming after me out of the goodness of your heart. Let me go through with this deal, and I’ll give you a cut. Twenty percent.”

Her hand tightens on the stun gun, knuckles whitening, but she keeps her voice even. “Some of this cutting-edge technology was used on a friend of mine.”

He laughs, a nervous sound that he seems to regret immediately. Not enough to stop him from going on, though. “You’re the Black Widow. You don’t have friends. Allies, maybe. SHIELD’s gone, you can do whatever you want now. I’m talking buy-your-own-island amounts of money.”

For a second she actually considers it. Snap all the threads and run, start over somewhere else. It would be easier, having nothing to lose. Just being what they think she is. A Black Widow doesn’t have friends. A Black Widow doesn’t have anything real. She only cares about survival. Nick Fury was just the highest bidder for her services, and now he’s gone, SHIELD’s gone, and she could drop everything else she’s built so easily. Just open her hand and it’s gone.

The trouble is that it isn’t true. It hasn’t been true for a long time. Because of Steve, and Sam, and Clint. Because of Fury, even if he has as much trouble admitting it as she does. Because of Bucky, who probably hates her now, but she still _matters_ to him, she’s _real,_ and thinking that, _I matter to them,_ gives her a swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach, but it’s true. It means she could hurt them, and she doesn’t want to hurt them. But running isn't going to protect them.

She helps Smith up off the floor. “I’ve always wanted an island.”

He lets out a long breath, even smiling slightly as he brushes his pants off. “Okay, so fifteen percent, do we have a deal?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You said twenty just a minute ago.”

“Okay, twenty, if you insist, but I’m not going any higher than that.”

She nods, and when he holds out a hand to shake, she slaps a pair of handcuffs on him. She always carries them with her; they’re collapsible, matte black, very convenient. 

“On second thought, maybe I’ll just hand you over to the police.”

After she’s dealt with him, she goes back and blows up the garage, making sure there's nothing left but twisted fragments of metal.

* * *

Sam greets her when she gets back to his place.

“Heard a garage exploded. Was that you?”

“Gas leak,” she says, deadpan. “No one got hurt.” She fills him in on what happened, and he’s a little miffed that she didn’t invite him along. She promises he can come with her the next time she arrests Hydra agents.

In the guest room, she puts on headphones and settles in to listen to some of the recordings from Steve’s apartment. She’s fallen behind a few days on reviewing them; Sam keeps finding things for her to do besides wallow in guilt. It’s slow work even in the best of circumstances, but she can’t convince herself to stop altogether.

Silence. Muffled whimpering, that’s Bucky asleep. Fast forward. Steve and Bucky making breakfast. An argument about whether running in sunglasses is ridiculous. Right, he’s running now, which is…impressive. Maybe, she thinks, he’s just better off without her. Silence. Harsh breathing and a muttered, _Okay. Okay. Get it together. Fuck._ Steve calling something inaudible from another room and then Bucky raising his voice, _Yeah, sorry, I just need a minute._ Silence. Fast forward, an unfamiliar voice—oh, they’re watching a movie. From what she can make out, a terrible Captain America movie in which he fights Communists. _What,_ Steve says flatly, and then, _Oh really, it flies._ There’s muffled giggling and then an outright laugh from Bucky, and Natasha smiles in spite of herself. It’s nice to hear him happy for once.

The laughter dies down, and Bucky says something quiet that she has to pause and rewind to make out. _Natasha would love this._

_Yeah, you should show her the next time you see her._

Bucky sounds weary. _I know she’s not coming back._

_Why not?_

_I don’t know. I just do. Because I don’t get to…_ A long pause, almost ten seconds. _It’s too much._

She shuts off the recording and sits in silence for a while. Of course he thinks that. It makes her angry. They're too much alike. She goes out into the living room. Sam looks up from flipping through channels on the TV.

“I think I have to go back to New York,” she says.


	24. Chapter 24

Bucky thinks that maybe once he’s started running with Steve, it’ll all be downhill from here. Instead he has to stop and spend three days barely getting out of bed. He just gets tired of pushing himself and pushing himself, and the thought that he has to do this much all the time now terrifies him. In other words: he was doing fine but he let the fear get the better of him. Because he’s weak. He knows Steve wouldn’t like him saying that so he keeps it to himself.

On the third day he starts to wonder if anything has really changed since he got here. Maybe all the good days have just been a fluke and now things are going back to normal. It’s 2 p.m. and he’s still in bed, with a half-eaten sandwich on a plate beside him and crumbs in the sheets. Steve keeps bringing him meals, which is nice, but also maybe a bad idea because maybe if Steve didn’t make it easy, he would get up and take care of himself. He feels like he’s sinking into a morass with no way to get back out. The thought scares him enough that he finally drags himself out of bed.

Steve’s on the couch in the living room, frowning down at a sketchbook in his lap. Eventually he looks up and notices Bucky.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. He’s probably happy that Bucky’s not just sitting around like a lump anymore.

For a second Bucky freezes because he’s not supposed to ask for things. He pushes past it, frustrated.

“I need to do something.”

“Okay.” Steve sets the sketchbook down. “You want to watch a movie? Play a game?”

“No, not…” he gestures vaguely “…in here. Outside.”

“We could go for a walk?”

Bucky shakes his head. Being outside is still stressful enough that he can’t justify doing it for no reason. “There’s nothing we _need_ to do?” He sounds a little desperate, even to himself.

“Well…” Steve thinks about it. “We’re running low on toothpaste. We could go pick up some more.” He glances at his drawing again, like he can’t help himself. Bucky can’t see it very well from this angle but it might be a dancer. “Uh…do you think you could wait another fifteen minutes so I can finish this? I swear I’m almost done.”

Steve smiles as he says it, a little sheepish. He’s almost always wrong about being almost done. Bucky’s pretty sure Steve could easily fuss over the drawing for another hour or two, if left to his own devices. It took him a while to figure that out, because Steve always drops whatever he’s doing if Bucky needs something.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says impulsively. “I’ll get it.”

Steve blinks. “By yourself?”

Bucky lifts his chin, defensive. “Yeah, why not? It’s about time I started pulling my weight around here.” He’s already regretting the offer but he's not going to say so.

Steve looks uncomfortable. “Bucky…you don’t have to do that. Look, we can just go right now.” He starts to get up.

“No. Finish your picture.” 

“It’s just, I know you haven’t been feeling great lately. So maybe it’s not the best time…”

Bucky hates how badly he wants Steve to talk him out of it. It’s such a small thing. Should be such a small thing. He clenches his fists. “Are you gonna stop me?” It comes out harsher than he means it to. 

Steve stares at him for a minute, then sighs. “No.” He fiddles with his pencil. “Just…take care of yourself, okay? If you need to come back, just…come back.”

* * *

At this time of day the drugstore is empty except for one silver-haired woman browsing the snack aisle. It makes things a little easier, but Bucky’s still uncomfortable—the store’s cramped, no room to maneuver, too many shelves blocking the sightlines. And there are security cameras. This was a bad idea, of course it was a bad idea, but he’s not going to come back empty-handed because that means admitting Steve was right. 

He stalks up and down the aisles, telling himself to break it down into steps. Find toothpaste. Pay for toothpaste. Walk home. Simple, right? He can feel himself slipping towards a mission headspace and it scares him. The Soldier could do all of this without thinking twice—without thinking at all. But if he lets himself go like that, he’s not sure what might happen, or how hard it would be to come back from.

He finds the toothpaste and then has to stall for a while, pretending to investigate a shelf of painkillers with unnecessary intensity, before he can work up the nerve to go up to the register. The woman working there is young, with black hair dyed red at the ends. He’s half convinced something terrible is going to happen when he hands over the toothpaste (she’ll recognize him, she’ll know something’s wrong), but her eyes flick over him like any other customer.

She waits patiently while he fumbles the right number of crumpled bills out of his jeans pocket. It's Steve’s money, and Bucky hates having to accept it (borrow, he’s just borrowing) but he doesn’t have much choice right now. He almost forgets to wait for change but catches himself. She hands it over, he mumbles, "Thanks," and that’s it. He can go. He almost can’t believe it.

Once he leaves the store, he walks a block and turns the corner before leaning his back against a wall and hunching over, hands on his knees. He did it, he’s fine, he just has to get home now. You’d think he would feel better now that the hard part’s over, but instead all the feelings he’s been struggling to control hit him in an overwhelming wave. He needs to be back home _right now._ He stands up straight again. He’s fine. It’s only two more blocks. No problem. He consciously relaxes his shoulders and his jaw as he starts walking.

It’s sixty steps from the corner to Steve’s apartment; he’s counted it before. He just has to keep going. Forty now. A little dizzy, but he can handle it. He should be proud of himself. He actually did it. He wasn’t sure if he could. And nobody got stabbed or shot or anything. Maybe it’s okay if he lets himself rest now.

His hand’s unsteady and it’s hard to get the key in the lock. He tries a few times before testing the knob and realizing it’s not locked. Someone else must have come out after him; he’s sure he locked it. He climbs the stairs (his knees are shaking so it’s harder than it should be) and finally comes out into the second floor hallway.

The door to the apartment isn’t locked either; Steve probably left it open for him. That's assuming he didn't get so worried about Bucky that he rushed out after him and forgot to lock it. Bucky wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’m back,” he says to the empty living room, raising his voice. God, he's glad to be home. Honestly he’s surprised Steve isn’t immediately in his face and fussing over him. Maybe he really did go out to track Bucky down. The thought offends his pride a little. He checks his watch; he was only gone for half an hour.

There’s still no response from Steve, so Bucky goes to look for him. He isn’t in his bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or Bucky’s bedroom. He even looks in the closet. It’s probably fine, though. He’ll wait a little while and Steve will come back. Unless he doesn’t because he’s finally run out of patience with Bucky being a jerk to him. Bucky sits down on the bed, jiggling one leg nervously.

After a few minutes he remembers his cell phone and dials Steve’s number. Steve doesn’t pick up. He switches the phone to his left hand so he can touch the screen with his right and sends Steve a text. 

_I’m home. Where are you?_ No reply. He waits for a while, chewing on his bottom lip and staring down at the screen. Eventually he tries calling again, cringing a little at his own neediness. Here he is thinking he's doing better and he can't even handle a stupid thing like Steve not being where he's supposed to be.

This time there's a faint, high-pitched noise from the living room. He follows it and finds Steve’s phone buried under one of the couch cushions. Not good. Steve never goes out without his phone. He’s too overprotective to leave Bucky without a way to contact him.

He looks around the room more carefully and sees something on the molding of the door. Up close it turns out to be two smudged grey fingerprints and a thumb. They have to be Steve's; he had pencil lead on his fingers from drawing. Bucky fits his hand to the marks and confirms what he already suspects: this is just where you'd hang on if someone was trying to drag you out of the apartment.

Bucky has to put a hand on the door to steady himself. Steve is in trouble.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry I'm so slooooow. Also, I've kind of been hiding from my comments section, but I read and appreciate every one of them! You guys are awesome.

Bucky doesn’t react well at first. He’s already exhausted and he just overloads. It takes him a while to realize he’s sitting on the floor staring at a threadbare spot in the carpet and rocking back and forth. Everything feels far away. Part of his brain is screaming at him to get up, spring into action and hunt down the people who took Steve before they do something terrible to him. Steve is important. He needs Steve. 

This is all Bucky’s fault. He should have noticed something was wrong. He wasn’t gone very long (he looks at his watch again and feels a little calmer), which means that whoever took Steve was almost definitely waiting outside for a chance, and they probably moved as soon as Bucky left. He probably would have seen them if he hadn’t been distracted by his stupid anxiety drama. He shouldn’t have left Steve alone with no protection anyway, and they probably wouldn’t have come after Steve at all if Bucky wasn’t living there, and maybe Steve just faked a kidnapping because he didn’t know how else to get away from Bucky. 

The last idea is ridiculous enough that it shakes him out of the guilt spiral. Steve isn’t like that. Steve is his friend, and he doesn’t have anyone else, so he’s counting on Bucky. Bucky has to do this. It’s a lot easier than buying toothpaste. He already has the skill set. Come on, he tells himself, get up. He has to say it six times before it actually works. 

The first step is to figure out who has Steve and where they might have taken him. He needs to look for clues. Anything left behind. Security footage from the building or outside. Witnesses. Can he talk to witnesses? He thinks he might scare them. He could ask someone for help, maybe Natasha, no, not Natasha, he can’t think about her right now. This is his mess to clean up. He’s wasted some time, but they can’t have gotten far yet.

Another sweep of the apartment doesn’t give him anything new to work with. Steve’s pencil has rolled under the couch; the coffee table’s slightly out of place. It must have been a quick fight because nothing’s broken. The shield is nowhere to be found. Bucky goes out into the hall, steels himself, and knocks on the door to 2B.

It takes a while for anyone to answer and he shifts from one foot to the other, trying not to think about how Steve could be getting farther away every minute. Just when he’s about to give up, the door opens. An older woman in a pink flowered nightgown answers it. Bucky runs a self-conscious hand through his hair, which he hasn’t combed in a while.

The woman seems distracted, but when she sees him she smiles with what looks like relief.

“Oh, good, you’re Steve’s friend.”

Bucky doesn’t know how she knows that. He hasn’t met any of the neighbors, but Steve must have told them about him. Bucky wonders what he said, exactly.

“Did you hear something from our apartment a little while ago?” he asks. It occurs to him as he says it that he should have started with “Hello,” but the woman just nods. 

“Loud thumping noises. I thought maybe you boys were fighting, but then I looked through the peephole and I saw these men carrying Steve out. Four or five of them.” She lowers her voice. “Armed men. I knew it couldn't be anything good. I called the police just a minute ago and told them somebody was kidnapping Captain America, but I don’t think they believed me. Maybe you can talk to them.”

Bucky clenches his fists and tries not to think about somebody hitting Steve. “Was he hurt?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. He looked sort of out of it, though.”

Drugged, maybe. That would be the easiest way to get Steve out of the apartment without getting the shit kicked out of them like they deserved.

“Did you see their car?”

“No, I’m sorry. My windows don’t have a view of the street.”

“What did they look like?”

She puts a hand to her cheek. “Oh, I don’t know, just normal young men. White. They looked like they went to the gym a lot.”

Not surprising, but not particularly helpful, either. “Did they say anything? Something that might help me find them?” He tries to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Please, it’s really important.”

The woman frowns. “Let me think. They said something about a safe house. Getting there before Steve woke up, I think.”

A safe house. That…doesn’t narrow things down very much. “What else?”

“Well, I don’t know if…” She trails off. After a moment she says, “One of them was complaining about being out of a job. Seemed to think it was Steve’s fault. But I don’t know if that’s any help.”

Bucky only catches the tail end of that because he’s already heading back into Steve’s apartment. They have to be ex-Hydra. And everything Bucky knows about Hydra operations in New York comes from that one mission with Natasha ten years ago. They knew better than to send him back after that. Bucky never used a safe house on that mission--you couldn’t hide from Hydra on Hydra property--but there were two locations he'd memorized in case of emergencies. He doesn't know if they’ll still be there, but he can check. At least he’ll be doing something useful.

As the door closes behind him he realizes that he should have thanked the woman across the hall. _James Buchanan Barnes, where are your manners?_ He’ll just have to hope she forgives him, because he can’t worry about that right now. He goes into Steve’s closet, pulls out the heavy trunk at the back, and starts picking the lock. He’s going to need weapons for this.

* * *

Natasha is on a train. She has her earbuds in; she’s listening to the most recent recordings from the Brooklyn apartment, even though she knows it’s ridiculous and she should just ask Bucky how things have been going once she gets there. But she’s a completist, and she has some time to kill, and she doesn’t like going into a situation unprepared. She didn’t stay alive this long by doing sloppy work.

So Bucky’s going out on his own now. She can’t help smiling at that. She listens to him leave, and then it’s just Steve in the apartment, so it’s quiet, and then…not so quiet. The sound of a door bursting open. Yelling and the distinctive thuds of flesh hitting flesh and flesh hitting metal, and then a loud noise that she thinks is a weapon going off.

_Grab his legs._

_You got the shield?_

_They’re gonna pay how much, again?_

There’s a dazed mumble from Steve which she can’t make out except for Bucky’s name. Someone says, _You let us worry about him._

Natasha switches the recording off, digging her nails into her palms. She needs to be there _right now._


	26. Chapter 26

The Manhattan safe house is empty, but still stocked with canned goods and ammunition. The one in Queens, Bucky can see as he approaches, is abandoned, windows bare of glass or boarded up. He almost leaves before he remembers there was supposed to be a basement. 

He circles closer, keeping out of sight. One of the empty windows gives him a view of a man leaning against a door inside the building, smoking a cigarette. Bucky can make out the shape of a gun under his shirt. A guard. The space around him is mostly empty: walls scrawled with graffiti, candy wrappers and cigarette butts littering the floor, a broken office chair in one corner.

One guy. These clowns are so out of their league. His neighbor said there were four or five of them in all, so there could be another four downstairs. Or there could be more. Considering how chatty they were while they were grabbing Steve, he’s not ruling out the possibility that this is a trap. It would be smarter than trying to take on two supersoldiers at once. Or maybe Steve was the main job and he’s just a bonus. It doesn’t really matter, because he’s going in either way.

His mind is clearer than it’s been in a long time. There’s only one thing that matters: getting in and getting Steve out. Everything else has fallen away in the face of that cold focus, and he should probably be worried about what it means, but mostly he’s just relieved. Underneath that he’s dimly aware that he’s angry—partly at himself for letting this happen, partly at these guys for daring to put their hands on Steve. Nobody gets to do that. Making sure nobody does that is his job. It’s why he had the rifle. He wonders what happened to it, after he fell.

As soon as he makes a move, whoever’s downstairs will know he’s here. In the end he opts for a straightforward approach and just kicks the front door open, shooting the guard in the chest before he can draw his gun. Bucky grabs the gun in passing as he moves on to the basement door. He can already hear movement from the other side, at least three sets of hurried footsteps. He’s not sure how Steve will feel about him killing people. Is he supposed to be trying not to kill people? It’d help if they’d return the favor. Well, maybe they'll have tranq guns, if they’re expecting him. 

This door is made of steel. It opens outward, and he meets resistance when he uses his left arm to pull on it. He pulls harder. Something groans and snaps, and it comes free. There are two men and a woman in the stairwell. They’re not in position yet, but the woman gets a shot off before Bucky knocks the gun out of her hand. Something pings against the door behind him—a dart, by the sound. Okay then. He kicks one guy into the other, knocking them both down the stairs. One of them doesn’t look like he’s getting up again, which Bucky should probably feel worse about. He grabs one of the extra tranq guns and uses it to knock out the survivors.

The basement is large and musty, with a concrete floor and brick walls painted dark red. There’s a weird jumble of furniture in it: a few folding tables, an assortment of chairs, a faded couch against one wall, what looks like a fridge. A big chest that they’ve probably been keeping their weapons in. Also more than four people. More like ten. Ten is doable; you just have to use them against each other. 

Bucky finds Steve immediately. He’s slumped against the far wall, head down. His hands are attached to the wall above his head with the kind of big clunky restraints Hydra used to use on Bucky. He doesn’t seem to be awake. Still drugged? Given the way Steve burns through sedatives, he’s pretty hard to drug—but then again, that’s something else Hydra’s had a chance to perfect.

It’s chaos when Bucky comes into the room. Most people try to shoot him, some with tranq darts, others with real bullets. A few skip right to running away, although Bucky’s between them and the door, so they end up cowering under tables instead. Good. They don’t deserve to get off easy, not after trying to dope him and Steve up and sell them as science experiments. 

Bucky grabs the nearest goon and uses him as a shield, then throws him into two others. He flips a table on its side and uses it for cover while he picks off the rest of his attackers with tranq darts. It doesn’t take too long. He wonders if the darts are strong enough to kill a normal person. He’s been operating too much on instinct, and his instincts aren’t exactly merciful. Maybe he's giving them a chance of survival, at least.

Once he’s run out of people shooting at him, he crouches down next to Steve and feels his neck for a pulse. Steve’s eyes flutter open a sliver, then close again. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.

“I’ve gotta tell you, Steve,” Bucky says, “I can’t believe you let these guys get the drop on you. It’s embarrassing.”

Steve mumbles something incoherent. Bucky grins. The cuffs are pretty sturdy; he doesn’t think he can break them with his bare hands. He tries a couple times just for the hell of it. Maybe he can rip them out of the wall? It’s going to be annoying if he has to search all the bodies for a key.

He’s been keeping one eye on the three guys who are still quivering under tables. One of them keeps glancing toward the stairs, but hasn’t decided to make a break for it yet. The other two are fumbling with a phone but keep dropping it. Not exactly a threat. Bucky’s just getting to his feet when the recording plays.

It’s the goddamn phone, and Bucky doesn’t even understand what’s happened at first. He hears a phrase spoken in Russian, a man’s voice, deep and gravelly, and it sounds familiar but he doesn’t know why. And then everything goes to hell.

He can’t move. His muscles lock up and he just stands there, frozen in place. His back is to the guys with the phone and he needs to see what they’re doing but he can’t, he can’t turn, it isn’t allowed. Has this happened before? He doesn’t remember. He didn’t know anyone could do this to him. Where did they get the recording? It can't have been easy to find. They’re whispering to each other now, trying to decide if it’s safe to come out. Only if they want him to rip their fucking heads off. He tries to say it but his throat won’t work. He’s just a body. The body doesn’t belong to him.

They’re coming over now and he needs to turn but he can’t. One has dark curly hair, one has glasses and a scar on his cheek. No one he knows. They stop a safe distance away and look at him.

“Oh my god,” the one with glasses says shakily. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Jesus.” The one with curly hair rubs his face and looks around the room at all the dead or unconscious bodies. “Well, I guess we get a bigger cut, huh?”

* * *

He doesn’t become a mindless robot. His mind is still there. It’s just that someone else is in control of his body and he’s watching it do things and he can’t stop. He’s trying to stop. They give him orders. Don’t move. Put down your weapons. His breath whistles in and out between his teeth. Kneel. Clasp your hands behind your head. He’s trying so hard not to obey and he can’t do it. His knees thud against the concrete. The body that isn’t his is trembling with effort and adrenaline because they’re going to take him back now, they’re going to put him in the chair and erase everything again and he can’t, he’d rather be dead.

His breath is coming fast now and he’s starting to feel dizzy. He’s not going to beg. He can’t beg because his throat isn’t working. It gets out one brief jerk of sound, meaningless. He’s face to face with Steve now, kneeling. God, Steve. Bucky’s fucked this up so badly. He was trying to do it right. He didn’t know.

Steve’s eyes are open halfway again, looking at Bucky hazily. He frowns, confused. He tugs at the handcuffs but he’s nowhere near full strength and they don’t budge.

Minutes go by and Bucky doesn’t move, and the ex-Hydra agents start to relax. One of them gets on the phone with someone Bucky thinks might be the prospective buyer. “Yeah, we’ve got them both,” he’s saying. Please no. Not again. There has to be some way to fight.

Then the one with glasses is putting a gun to Steve’s head. Bucky doesn’t understand why until he speaks.

“Freeze, or I’ll shoot him.” He’s not talking to Bucky. He’s looking somewhere over Bucky’s head.

“Really? He’s worth a lot less dead,” someone says coolly. Natasha says. That makes no sense; Natasha can’t be here. Maybe he’s going crazy. He wants to turn and look at her but he can’t.

“Winter Soldier,” one of them says. “Kill her.”


	27. Chapter 27

Natasha doesn’t understand what she’s seeing at first. The bodies are self-explanatory. The darts littering the floor on the way in tell her why so many of them are still breathing. What she doesn’t understand is why Bucky is kneeling, why his weapons are on the ground when nobody has a gun on him or Steve. Why he doesn’t react when they do point a gun at Steve. Even from the back he looks wrong, every muscle gone rigid, and she knows without seeing his face that he’s terrified. But she doesn’t understand why. Not until they give him an order and he obeys it.

He gets to his feet, haltingly. Turns to face her. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are too wide. He’s surrendered all his weapons, and she wonders if he can keep himself from picking them up again. How much leeway does he get in interpreting an order like that? Not that he couldn’t kill her with his bare hands. 

He’s not going to kill her. Natasha has a protocol for this. When people she cares about are turned against her, her first priority is survival. Second is keeping the other person alive. Third is minimizing the (non-fatal) damage. She’s worked it all out beforehand, so she doesn’t make the wrong decision in the heat of the moment and end up dead.

Bucky bends fluidly and picks up a knife from the floor without looking. Not a gun. It’s possible that his hand hesitates between the two for a split second. His eyes don’t leave her face.

She shifts her weight to the balls of her feet. “Bucky,” she says. “I know you don’t want to do this. Fight it.” She’s not really expecting it to work. She’s going to have to end this herself.

The simplest way is to get to one of the tranq guns and knock him out. Assuming the drug is strong enough. It must be at least somewhat effective, judging by the state Steve’s in. Speaking of which—Steve would be really helpful right now, if he didn’t have a gun to his head. She catches his eye and raises a questioning eyebrow, but he just looks grim. He’s still trying to get out of the cuffs, but he can't do much without calling attention to himself.

Bucky lunges at her, an aggressive attack designed to end the fight as quickly as possible. She moves instinctively out of the knife’s path, and it misses her by a millimeter. 

“Fight it, James.” He follows her, and she blocks his arm with her own before the knife can reach her chest. It’s an effort; she forgot how strong he was. She lands a kick to his torso, knocking him back. “You don’t have to. You’re not theirs anymore.”

He makes a frustrated noise. His eyes are wild, but his movements are precise, mechanical. Deadly. He used to be more like this, back when they trained together. All personality buried beneath relentless motion and violence. It was harder to see past it then.

When he comes at her again, she uses his momentum to throw him to the ground, then dives and rolls for the nearest tranq gun, snatching it from a slack hand. Bucky’s on his feet again by the time she has it. She gets off a couple of shots, but he raises his left arm to block the darts and they plink harmlessly off the metal. He grabs a wooden chair and uses it to block her next attempts. The darts run out quickly—only six. She tosses the gun aside.

He’s been forced to give ground, moving toward the corner with the couch and fridge in it. He pauses for a moment, watching her warily. She keeps her distance. 

“James?” she tries again. He flinches but doesn't respond.

Then one of the remaining Hydra agents says, “Just shoot her.”

Bucky freezes. His eyes follow Natasha’s to the nearest gun he could get his hands on, lying on the floor between them. He’s much closer than she is. It’s a simple calculation: first priority is to survive. Bucky armed and aiming to kill is likely not survivable without using equal force.

It happens fast. Bucky goes for the gun just as Natasha draws her own from the holster at her waist. It’s loaded with bullets, not darts, but if Bucky’s anything like Steve, he can take a few bullets without it killing him. She hopes. Acceptable risk. She aims for his legs even though she knows it makes her more likely to miss. Misses. There’s a moment just before he straightens up where she has a clear shot at him, center of mass. Acceptable risk? She hesitates, then feels the impact of a bullet hitting her left leg below the knee. The leg gives out and she falls forward. She loses her gun when she hits the ground, just to make things perfect. It slides across the floor, out of reach.

She tries to crawl for it, but Bucky gets there first and kicks it away. She has a second gun, but it’s in an ankle holster on her injured leg and she doesn’t think she can get to it. Bucky closes the distance between them. He takes his time about it, and she tells herself maybe that means he’s fighting back. He shot her in the leg, and they both know that’s not what he was supposed to do. 

She slides a stiletto out of her sleeve, keeping it hidden in her palm. When Bucky reaches her, she twists and drives it into his calf. He stumbles, but it’s not enough, and he wrenches the knife out of her grip. He raises the gun and points it at her forehead. His hand is shaking badly. She meets his eyes. His face is horrified, pleading. _Stop me._

He hasn’t put his finger on the trigger yet. Distantly, she can hear Steve shouting, trying to snap him out of it, but the words don’t reach her. Everything is very clear. She’s going to die. He’s going to kill her. It’s probably fair, in the grand scheme of things. He deserves to live more than she does. He fought harder, he didn’t do what she did to survive. 

But this is going to destroy him. It’s an old impulse that hits her. You can’t win, so just try to make it easier. Tell him it’s all right, that she doesn’t blame him, she forgives him.

No. _You do not let them kill you. You don’t stop fighting, not for one second._ She has taser disks in her pocket, the kind that disabled his arm once before. She grabs a whole handful and tosses them at him. She knows it might just startle him into pulling the trigger, but it’s all she has to work with.

Three of the disks hit their target with a crackle of electricity and Bucky staggers back, dropping the gun. He hits the corner with the fridge in it and reaches out with both arms. Natasha doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he tips the whole fridge over and pins himself to the ground.

It’s suddenly very quiet. Bucky doesn’t move. Natasha lowers her head and gasps for air. Her leg is still bleeding; she should put pressure on it. A movement at the corner of her eye catches her attention, and she turns her head just in time to catch the last two Hydra agents making a break for the door. They don’t get very far. Steve, still cuffed to the wall, kicks out with his legs and knocks them both down.

Natasha gets to her feet on the second try and limps over to retrieve her gun. The pain is starting to hit now that she’s not in danger, and standing makes her dizzy. She takes aim and shoots one Hydra agent in the head, then the other. Steve jolts in surprise, but she’s not going to lose any sleep over it. She’s low on mercy at the moment.

Steve looks at the blood on her leg. “You okay?” His voice is slightly slurred.

“Amazing.” She fumbles in her pockets and finds a handheld laser cutter. She leans over with a wince, putting one hand on the wall for balance, and starts cutting through Steve’s handcuffs.

“Thanks.” Steve glances over at Bucky. “Is he—?”

Natasha straightens. “Let’s find out.”

Bucky stays still until she’s ten feet away from him. Then he makes a frantic scrabbling motion that doesn’t get him anywhere. He’s trapped himself very effectively.

“Don’t come near me,” he says, and she can hear the panic in his voice. She looks him over, trying to see the extent of the damage. He must have broken a couple of ribs, at least, but with most of him still covered by the fridge, it’s hard to tell. His face is pale, sheened in sweat. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away from her, like he’s afraid looking at her will trigger more murderous impulses.

“You have to knock me out,” he says hoarsely. “Please. Or shoot me, you could just shoot me.”

She stays where she is. “Bucky…I think it’s over.”

He opens his eyes, cautious, and slides them over to her face. “Is it?” It’s barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” she says, more confidently. “It’s all over now.” She reaches him and drops to her knees, too exhausted to keep putting weight on her injured leg.

"Okay," Bucky says. "Okay." He's blinking back tears. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop. I was trying to stop.”

“I know you were.”

“I shot you again.” He sounds devastated.

She dredges up a smile. “It’s okay, it's just a graze.” Which is a lie, but it isn’t going to kill her. “Let’s get this thing off you.”

“I’m so sorry, Natasha.”

She wants to stroke his hair, but she swats his shoulder instead. “You idiot. Why didn’t you call me?” There are definitely not tears in her eyes.

He manages half a smile. “I had it under control.”

She starts giggling, and the tears spill over in spite of her best efforts. She leans over and kisses him, at first hesitantly, then less so when he kisses back.

Steve clears his throat awkwardly behind them. Natasha turns to look at him. He’s swaying a little on his feet. He also seems to be trying not to smile. 

He gestures at the room. “Okay, well, I'm going to call in some help to deal with this mess. Before they start waking up.”

Natasha turns back to Bucky, who’s staring up at her with a truly dopey grin that she hopes isn’t actually a sign of concussion.

She says, “I guess we should probably talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently those little round things that electrocute people are called taser disks? So the Marvel wikis tell me.


	28. Chapter 28

Bucky asks Steve and Natasha to jab him with a tranquilizer before they move the fridge off him, but they won’t do it. They seem to think it’s not necessary. Bucky wants to argue, but he has to admit he’s a lot of dead weight to carry out of here, especially when none of them are at full strength.

He just has the three broken ribs, so he’s basically fine, and Natasha’s wound has pretty much stopped bleeding by now—though “just a graze” was an exaggeration. She’s been lying on the floor for the last twenty minutes or so with her leg propped up on a folding chair, making suggestions while Steve woozily directs the police and the employees Tony sent over. The Hydra tech has to be confiscated and locked up, the unconscious agents taken to a hospital under guard, the dead ones to a morgue. Bucky’s been sitting quietly next to Natasha with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching her press a wad of fabric against the hole in her calf. He’s trying to stay out of the way. He doesn’t want to risk anything happening, not when there are so many innocent people around. 

Steve's gotten wrapped up in what he's doing, and it takes some effort from Natasha to convince him that no, really, things are under control here and they can leave. They decide against going to a hospital, to Bucky’s relief, but Natasha insists that they take a cab back to Steve’s place. Steve says he’s fine and he can take the subway, even though he and Natasha are leaning on each other just to stay upright, but Natasha gives him a look and he gives in. 

They’d probably let Bucky lean on them, too, but he can’t right now. When he first got to his feet, Steve put a hand on his back to steady him, but he flinched away before he could stop himself. He’s afraid something will flip the switch again and he’ll hurt them. He can’t let that happen. Half an hour ago he would’ve shot himself in the head to stop it, if he could have made his arms obey. 

He’s trying not to stare at Natasha. She’s mostly been talking to Steve and not him, and he’s not sure why. Giving Bucky space, maybe, but he’s not sure he wants it. Or maybe she’s embarrassed by what happened and wants to forget about it. He still can’t believe she kissed him. He almost killed her and she kissed him. It must have been a mistake. The heat of the moment. 

He needs to hold onto it, though, because he’s not sure what happens next. He doesn’t think they’ll kill him, even though that would be safest for everyone. But they’ll have to lock him up; they can’t just leave a ticking time bomb to wander around free. And they’ll have to punish him to make sure he never does it again. He turned on his handlers; that’s the worst thing, and the punishments are always…no. They’re not handlers, they’re his friends. But the terrified certainty is there anyway and he’s having a hard time keeping it straight.

He’s shivering a little, hands clasped together in his lap. It would be better if they were cuffed. He stares at a graying piece of gum stuck to the floor of the cab. Natasha says his name and he starts.

“It’s okay,” she says into his ear, and he didn’t realize how close she is, a warm weight against his side from thigh to shoulder. She shifts slightly and it makes his injured ribs ache but he doesn’t really mind. “No one’s mad at you.”

“I know.” Does he? He can’t make himself look at her. “I just—this can’t ever happen again. And if you need to—whatever you need to do to make sure I’m not a threat, I’ll do it.”

“Okay. I know some therapists who are excellent at dealing with this kind of thing. We can make sure there aren’t any more triggers.”

Therapists? The thought of someone else poking around inside his head makes his chest tighten. But Natasha wouldn’t let them hurt him, would she? Maybe it would be good for him. If they could really make him safe to be around.

“And we’ll find whoever gave those knuckleheads the trigger phrase,” Steve puts in. “We’ll chase it back to the source and burn everything down.”

“Okay,” Bucky gets out. They’re always so nice to him. He doesn’t deserve it. Natasha lays her head on his shoulder and he stops talking. Her breath is fast and shallow, but slower than his, and he tries to match it. By the time they get home, he’s stopped shivering.

* * *

Natasha immediately limps off to the bathroom to get the first aid kit, leaving Steve and Bucky alone. Bucky thinks the drugs are almost out of Steve’s system—he’s a lot brighter and more coordinated. He runs a hand through his hair in a way that’s painfully familiar to Bucky, even without a memory attached to it.

“Listen,” Steve says, “I just want to thank you for coming after me.”

Bucky nods. Steve’s looking at him with what might be concern, so he makes himself speak up. “You think I was gonna let you get turned into a lab rat again?”

Steve smiles, ducking his head, but then he sobers. “You shouldn’t have done it though, Buck. I don’t want you putting yourself in danger for me, not after everything you’ve been through. I’d never forgive myself if—” He breaks off. “I’m Captain America, remember? I could’ve handled it on my own.”

“Oh yeah, Steve, you were handling it real well.” It comes out more sarcastic than he intends. Old habits, maybe.

Steve looks sheepish, but before he can respond, Natasha comes out of the bathroom. Steve glances at her. “I’m gonna give you guys some time to yourselves.” Bucky’s eyes widen and he grabs Steve’s arm on the side Natasha can’t see, but Steve gives him one of those looks. You know, the ones that make guys throw themselves off cliffs for him. (Somebody said that once. Dum Dum?) “You’ve got this,” Steve says.

Bucky isn’t so sure, but he nods and lets Steve go.

Natasha has settled herself on the living room couch and is snipping away the leg of her pants with scissors. Bucky goes over and stands awkwardly in front of her for a moment. It seems presumptuous to sit next to her, so he sits on the floor at her feet.

“Can I help?” he asks.

“No, it’s fine,” Natasha says lightly, but she’s moving more slowly than usual, her hands clumsy. She pulls off the makeshift bandage she applied earlier and grimaces as the wound wells with blood again. Moving around so much hasn’t helped it.

Bucky reaches out and gently tugs on the handful of blood-soaked cloth. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

She hesitates, then lets go of the bandage. She drops her arm and leans her head back against the couch cushions. “Poor Steve. He’ll have to get his carpets replaced.” Her face is pale.

“I don’t think he’ll mind.” Bucky sets the bandages aside and picks up a bottle of water to rinse out the wound. It’s ugly, straight through the muscle. He did this to her. “I really am sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Natasha doesn’t so much as twitch as the stream of water hits her.

Bucky focuses on applying gauze and fresh bandages, not sure what else to say. 

Natasha's the one who breaks the silence. She speaks without moving, staring straight at the opposite wall. “You know, I was coming back here anyway. Before I knew about Steve.”

“Why?”

“For you, of course.” There’s a flicker of amusement on her face, but then she just looks sad. “I shouldn’t have left like that.”

“It’s okay. Maybe it was even a good thing.” He finishes wrapping the bandage and checks that it isn’t too tight.

“Oh?” Her tone goes harder, less genuine. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”

“No, I just mean…if you needed space to think. And I…” He hopes this doesn’t hurt her feelings, because he’s probably saying it wrong. “I know I can live without you now.” He swallows. “But I missed you. A lot.”

“I missed you too,” she says softly. She’s staring at the pattern of blood droplets on the carpet now. “But what if I’m not good for you?” She tries to smile, but it comes out crooked. “I’m actually pretty fucked up, you know. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“You mean you don’t think I can.” He says it before he thinks about it.

“Well, can you?” She raises an eyebrow, challenging.

“I don’t know.” An edge has crept into his voice. “You didn’t really give me a chance.”

“I know. I got scared.” Then, stubbornly, “Because I’m fucked up. I know I’m good at hiding it, Barnes, but the truth is sometimes I can barely take care of myself.”

“I don’t want you to take _care_ of me,” Bucky snaps. Natasha stares at him, wide-eyed. He makes his voice calm again with an effort. “I mean. We could take care of each other, maybe.”

“That would be nice.” She only sounds half convinced.

“I think…” He bites his lip. “If that’s all that’s stopping you, then I think we should try. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t, but I want to try. I mean…if you want to.”

She doesn’t say anything for a while. Then she lets out a breath. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s try.”

“Really?” He can't help the smile that creeps across his face. 

“Really.” Natasha smiles back at him, and there’s something oddly shy about it, like she doesn’t use this smile very often. It makes her look much younger. She pats the couch next to her.

“Now come sit next to me. You’re too far away.”

Bucky doesn’t have to, but he obeys.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was supposed to be the last chapter, but it got too long, so I decided to split it up.

Natasha spots Bucky on the security cameras before he rings the doorbell. She buzzes him in and waits to hear his footsteps on the stairs. Then she opens the door, preparing a smile. As usual, she feels a flash of regret that it isn’t completely spontaneous--she's not lying about being happy to see him, but she’s never sure how much normal people think about these things.

“You made it,” she says.

He gives her an answering smile, though it's a little shaky. He’s wearing jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt that brings out his eyes. One arm is hidden behind his back, which would put her on the alert if it were anyone else. If he were going to attack her, he wouldn’t be so obvious about it.

The apartment is new, and it’s only the third time he’s come to visit her on his own. She knows it’s still hard for him, but she also knows better than to gush about it. He’ll just laugh shortly and say something like, “Yeah, and I tied my own shoelaces, too.”

“Don’t laugh,” he says now, ducking his head slightly. “I got you flowers.” He produces a yellow and pink bouquet—daisies, carnations, and roses. He stopped somewhere and bought these for her and she can’t gush about that either. Instead she lifts them to her face and inhales deeply.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you.” The part of her mind she can’t shut off is telling her this is just what she’d do with a mark, and if she can’t stop the self-awareness, how can it ever be genuine?

He grins, and she lets the thought go. “It was fun figuring out how to get past your cameras at the right angles. Didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” How does he go from bashfulness to cocky charm so fast? It isn’t fair.

She goes to the kitchen to find something to put the flowers in. He trails after her. The apartment’s still mostly bare, and she keeps getting irrationally self-conscious about it when he visits. But she doesn’t like to have anything important around that she can’t throw into a duffel bag in a hurry.

She hunts through her cupboards and quickly admits defeat. “I don’t actually have a vase.”

“Oh.” He looks chagrined. “I could…bring you one?”

“Don’t worry about it.” She digs a wine bottle out of the recycling bin and fills it with water. “There, that’ll work for now.” She shoots him a look over her shoulder. “I hope I’m not overwhelming you with my glamorous lifestyle.”

He widens his eyes. “Golly, Miss, this place is like a palace.” He glances at her one decidedly un-palatial kitchen chair. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course, but let’s go in the living room.” She brings the flowers with her and sets them on the end table next to the couch. They add some color to the room.

He sits down heavily on the couch and stretches his legs out. She sits next to him. Not right next to him, but not at the other end of the couch, either. Last time he needed a few minutes to relax before he was comfortable with her getting too close.

“How’s the new therapist?”

He grimaces. “Okay.” The first one only lasted a few weeks. Bucky said he was too soothing.

“That good, huh?”

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “No, he’s…it’s good. I just get fucking terrified before every session.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh.

“But you’re still going. That’s what matters.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how much difference it makes. I’m pretty sure I’m stuck with this.” He makes a gesture that encompasses the entire contents of his head. “I mean. Maybe it’ll get better, but it’s not going away.” He hesitates, glancing at her. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Maybe not. But you can learn how to live with it.”

He nods. After a moment he says, with slightly forced cheer, “Not to ruin the mood or anything. Anyway. Dinner?”

“Do you want to just get pizza again?”

“Pizza’s good.”

She gets up to retrieve the menu from her fridge door. “I’m getting three this time,” she calls back from the kitchen.

“Okay.”

They start a movie while they wait. Bucky tends to like dark movies, but tonight it’s Natasha’s turn to pick, so they’re watching a cheesy romantic comedy. She unapologetically loves cheesy romantic comedies. 

Well. They’re sort of watching. Also sort of doing a subtle dance where they shift gradually closer to each other and wait to see if the other one notices or backs off. They’re about half an hour in before Bucky puts an arm around her back, swallowing, eyes fixed on the TV screen. She relaxes into it. It’s his right arm, hence soft, with the firmness of muscle underneath. He tends to sit to the left of people. She doesn’t know if it’s because he thinks they’ll be put off by the metal arm, or if he’s afraid of hurting someone with it.

After a few minutes, the doorbell rings and Natasha gets up reluctantly to get the pizza. When she gets back with the warm pile of boxes, she steels herself and deliberately sits right next to him, leaning against his side. After a moment, he puts the arm back.

She’s finding it hard to concentrate on the movie. Part of her brain is still absently recording plot details out of habit, but most of her is elsewhere. Especially when he turns his head and buries his face in her hair.

“You smell nice,” he murmurs. His breath is warm against her ear.

She’s supposed to have a script for interactions like this, but it’s escaping her. “I washed my hair,” she says, and mentally kicks herself for not coming up with something clever.

He brushes a few strands of hair behind her ear with his free hand and nuzzles at her jawline. Pauses for a moment with his lips against her skin, holding very still. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” she says softly. On the TV, the two leads are going through the kind of hilarious misunderstanding that could only be avoided by talking to each other. A dog is involved. She hears Bucky’s breathing pick up and turns her face to kiss him. His lips are chapped, his mouth gentle, exploratory. After a few minutes she shifts into his lap, her back to the TV. For a while there’s nothing but the pleasure of their hands on each other, figuring out how their bodies work together. Her skin has gone exquisitely sensitive. Happiness bubbles up inside her. When is she ever this happy? It must be a mistake.

Then it goes wrong, of course. Just one light touch to the back of her neck, and she freezes. No, she doesn’t freeze, because her body knows how to keep doing this even when her mind is preoccupied, how to put on a show, and she thinks maybe she’ll just let it keep going, so he doesn’t have to worry. But it’s like she’s watching someone else go through the motions now, and she can’t get her head back where she wants it.

 _Just get it over with,_ she thinks. But she’s been pestering Bucky lately to tell her when something in a movie triggers him, instead of just trying to tough it out. So she makes herself pull away. He looks up at her, questioning, lips slightly parted.

“Wait,” she says, out of breath. “Need to stop. Sorry.” He drops his hands immediately, pressing back against the couch cushions to give her more space. She starts to climb off his lap, then changes her mind and clings instead, burying her face in his shirt. It feels like falling, letting herself do that. Not being sure if he’ll catch her. So much weakness exposed.

“Sorry,” she says again.

One of his hands rubs tentatively up and down her back. “Do you know what I did that—?”

She makes herself speak steadily. Intel that has to be passed on. “When you touched the nape of my neck. It just—” She shakes her head, wishing she could shake it off.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” It has a bitter edge to it.

“It reminded you of something?” he says cautiously.

“I don’t even remember what.” She tries to laugh. “But I know it was bad.” She pauses, picking her words with delicate care. “I’m not usually myself when I do this. It makes things more complicated.”

He holds her close, kisses her forehead. “Do you want to finish the movie?”

She lets out a breath. “Okay.”

They curl up together and turn their attention back to the screen.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I kind of can't believe this is the last chapter. When I started this story, I thought it would be maybe 5,000 words at most, but as you can see, that didn't happen. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with it all this time! You're all wonderful people and your comments have meant so much to me.

They don’t try it again right away. Not for a couple of weeks. Natasha’s frustrated with herself; she knows they both want to, and she doesn’t want to be the one holding them back. Sex shouldn’t even be a big deal to her. It should be nothing. Of course that’s part of the problem.

It’s a Saturday morning, and they’re at her apartment again. They’ve just come back from having brunch together, at a diner that Natasha scouted out beforehand to make sure it wouldn’t be too crowded. Bucky still has trouble with restaurants. He’s been in a good mood today, though, distracted enough by their conversation that the setting didn’t stress him out too badly. They’ve been arguing over the best brand of throwing knives, which Natasha hopes didn’t alarm their waiter too much.

Good mood or not, Bucky gives off a palpable sense of relief when they get back to the apartment. “So, what do you want to do now?” he says, kicking off his sneakers.

“Well…” she says, drawing it out. “I do have one idea.” She gives him a flirtatious smile and takes his hand, tugging him toward the bedroom. She knows this part of the script.

He follows her, but there’s a hitch in his step. She stops just inside the doorway. 

“Just a thought,” she says, shrugging, trying to make it a smaller thing for both of them. “No pressure.” He nods but doesn’t answer. She’s not sure what that means. “Do you _want_ to?”

He lets out a breath. “God, yeah. It’s just…I used to be good at this.” He looks at the floor, hands shoved in his pockets.

She takes a step closer and puts her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t care if you’re good at it.” He raises his eyebrows, dubious. “I mean, it would be nice,” she admits. “But you kind of have to start all over with new people, anyway. Really, I just care that it’s you.”

He nods again and rubs at the back of his neck. “I just don’t know if it’ll come back. Maybe it’s all just, you know, erased.”

She says, cautiously, “You never had sex when you were with Hydra?”

He looks up with a distant expression, thinking, then shakes his head. “I don’t know. If I did, they must’ve wiped me pretty good after.”

Lucky, she thinks. For their definition of luck. Well, she’ll take it. She backs up a few steps and sits down on the edge of her bed. “So. How should we do this?”

“I don’t know.” He looks lost.

“I’m perfectly happy to take the lead, if you want.”

He shakes his head reflexively, which makes a corner of her mouth curl up. Him and his pride.

“I mean,” he says, flushing slightly, “I’d like to see if I remember. Maybe. If that’s okay.”

“All right.” She tosses her hair, then wonders if that was artificial of her. Better not to think about it. She is what she is. 

She scoots back on the bed till she’s reclining against the headboard. “How about if I sit like this, and you touch me? However you want.” She shifts a little, getting comfortable, very aware of his eyes on her. Her posture is relaxed, but her heart is beating fast.

“However I…” He swallows. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She considers several possible answers to that and settles on, “I’ll tell you if you do.”

He joins her on the bed, on his knees, hovering just out of arm’s reach. “I just want to use my hands,” he says. “Just…everywhere. Touch every part of you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Like an inventory?”

He giggles unexpectedly. “Yeah, why not?” He pauses, sobering. “Not the back of your neck, though. Is there anywhere else?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Not that I’m aware of. It’s not usually a problem.”

“Just tell me if I should stop, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You have to tell me, Natalia,” he says, serious.

“Okay.” She meets his eyes. “I promise.” 

He starts at the top, running his fingers through her hair. She shivers a little when he strokes her hairline.

“Mmm. That feels nice.”

Bucky frowns, his eyes unfocusing. “I think they used to do that sometimes. When I was good.” He shakes his head, pushing it away. His hand comes down to trace lightly over her forehead, her cheekbone, the curve of her jaw. He draws a forefinger down her nose for good measure, and she laughs. Then the finger lands on her mouth, gentle. She holds his gaze for a moment.

“Can you kiss me?” she says.

He does, softly. “Like that?”

“Just like that.”

He pulls away and lifts his right hand to her face again, then stops with a self-conscious laugh. “This is stupid, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

“No?”

“It’s nice. Keep going.”

“Okay.”

He cups her jaw with light and trembling fingers.

“Wait,” she says, and he freezes. “Can you do it with your left hand, too?”

He starts from the beginning again. Her hairline, forehead, cheek, a thumb against her lower lip. His left hand is colder, smoother. When she lets the tip of her tongue touch his thumb, the taste is all metal.

“Can you feel it?” she asks.

“Yeah. But it doesn’t feel…the same.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

He traces her jawline back to her ear, and she sucks in a breath. Then his fingers are on her neck, her throat, her pulse fluttering just under his thumb. He could kill her so easily, if he wanted to. Not that she’d let him. He moves on. Not the nape of her neck. The hollow between her collarbones, then out along the wings of bone to her shoulders, cupping them with his palms.

“I want to take this off,” she says, and pulls her blouse off over her head. She unhooks her bra and removes it as well. She knows what she looks like. Pale skin, red curls falling over her shoulders, nipples erect and dark. It’s a picture that men like. That everyone likes. She has scars here and there, at her shoulder, above her hip, raised and pink or shiny and white. Muscle, too, which puts some people off, but this is a useful body, not an ornament.

Bucky doesn’t seem to be put off. He’s looking at her with something more like wonder than lust. It’s almost embarrassing.

“Can I take yours off, too?” she says, partly to distract him.

He blinks. “Okay.”

She sits up, and he holds still for her as she unfastens the row of buttons, then pushes the shirt back to fall off his shoulders. It snags for a second on one of the joints in the metal arm, but it comes loose when he moves.

She looks at him for a long moment. He has a few scars, though he scars less easily than she does. The worst is the ragged seam where his arm is attached. He drops his eyes when her gaze comes to rest on it.

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles.

“You know what?” she says, skeptical.

“It’s pretty gross-looking when you see the whole thing.” She’s seen it before, and she wonders if she should remind him. A long time ago. Maybe it was harder to be self-conscious when he wasn’t allowed to have a self.

“That’s not the word I would use,” she says. “It actually looks pretty badass.” 

He shrugs. “Maybe if you want to scare people.”

She tilts her head to the side, considering. “Well, it’s a part of you, so I like it.”

“That’s conveniently simple.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It is.” She hooks her fingers in the waistband of his jeans. “Can you take these off?”

He unzips the jeans and pulls them off. She takes the opportunity to do the same with her pants, dropping them by the side of the bed. Then he comes back and puts his hands on her shoulders again. He slides them slowly down her arms. When he reaches her hands, she tangles their fingers together.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” Her eyes are closed.

“Maybe you shouldn’t relax too much. Just in case I…”

“You know I can kill you with my thighs, right?”

It startles a laugh out of him. “Right. Okay.”

His fingers trail down her chest, both hands at once. The left is starting to warm up. He curves his hands around the sides of her breasts and under before he touches the nipples, gently, then circling, rubbing. She arches her back. His hands slide down over her ribs, along the curves of her hips. Then the right hand draws a line down her stomach, circling her navel, lower, almost…she catches her breath. He puts his palm on her and just leaves it there for a moment, warm.

“Are you ready?” she says, sneaking a peek at him. “Because you look ready.”

He gives her a hint of a grin. “Shh, I’m not done yet.”

He slides his fingers back to cup her buttocks. Runs a palm down the front of each thigh, the back, the tender inner skin. Gentle hands on her knees, and she twitches, ticklish, when he touches the backs of them. Calves and ankles and then he has the soles of her feet in his hands, and she doesn’t move. “Now?” she says.

He presses a kiss between her legs. “You have condoms?”

“I can’t have kids anyway.” She throws it out like it doesn’t matter, but he goes still.

“Natasha. I’m sorry.”

“Forget about it. Come on.”

He looks like he wants to say something else about it, but he doesn't. “You’re sure it’s okay?”

“Yes.”

He moves, exasperatingly, a few inches farther away. “Are you _really_ sure?” The corners of his mouth curl up.

“Yes. Idiot. Come on.” 

It turns out things come back to him quickly. And he’s right. He did use to be good at this.

* * *

They just lie there for a while afterwards, his head on her chest. At some point his eyes drift closed and his breathing changes. She stays where she is, watching him. His face looks softer, asleep. His eyelashes are ridiculously long. She could do anything to him. He trusts her so much, but she will, she’ll do something, and right now everything is perfect but she’s not stupid enough to think it’ll last. She doesn’t want to know what happens next. She holds her breath like that will stop time from moving forward.

He stirs after a few minutes and starts to sit up.

“Don’t move,” she says softly. “Please?”

“Okay,” he mumbles and throws an arm over her stomach, getting comfortable again. “Hi.”

“Hi.” 

Something in her tone must be off, because he frowns. “You okay?”

"Yes.” She corrects herself. “I don’t know.” She hesitates. “This kind of scares me.”

He chuckles against her skin. “Good. ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to be the only one.”

She laughs in spite of herself. “You have no idea how much I don't know what I’m doing.”

He props himself up on his elbow so he can look at her. “I think you might actually have the advantage here. I mean, I don’t even understand how this happened.”

She raises her eyebrows. “And by this you mean…”

“All of it. Us. I mean, it’s real, right? I’m not imagining it?” There's a hint of genuine uncertainty in his voice, and she hooks a leg over his, hoping the touch of their bodies will chase it away.

“Feels pretty real to me.”

He goes on. "And it’s…you’re so…amazing. I never thought I’d get to have something like this again, and I…” He turns his face away, and she realizes his eyes are wet.

“James,” she says. “Shhh.”

He wipes his eyes. “Sorry. I just…you just make me really happy.”

“Good. Because I think I’m sort of in love with you.” She's never said it before and meant it, but the smile it draws from him makes it seem worth the risk. It’s like the sun coming out. It makes her want to kiss him again. So she does. After a while she has to pause for breath. She rests her forehead against his.

“You really think we’ll be okay?” she says softly.

“Maybe,” he says, and there’s a note of surprise in his voice, like the possibility has really never occurred to him before. “Yeah. Maybe so.”

She wraps her arms around him and pulls him as close as she can. She’ll take it.


End file.
